


Redamancy

by ArtemisPendragon (ArtemisPendragyn)



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Bounty Hunters, Canon Compliant, Canon Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Drama, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Everyone is gay except Jack who is just tired, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, On the Run, Post-Canon, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Romance, Running Away, Slow Burn, This one is for the gals and the gays, my take on season 4, season four au, switching POVs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:06:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 31,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28226604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArtemisPendragyn/pseuds/ArtemisPendragon
Summary: After killing the Great Red Dragon, Will, Hannibal, and Chiyoh head north. Although Will doesn't regret running away with Hannibal, he's reluctant to address the nature of their relationship. Hannibal is content to sit back and watch Will accept his inner darkness.Jack believes that Will and Hannibal are dead. But when Molly and Walter are kidnapped by bounty hunters, he recruits Price and Zeller to help him investigate, risking his career and his life.Alana and Margot are lying low in Tahiti. Despite the illusion of safety, Alana can't help but worry that something terrible is going to happen to her family.
Relationships: Alana Bloom/Margot Verger, Jimmy Price/Brian Zeller, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 64
Kudos: 98





	1. Blood in the Water

****

**CHAPTER ONE**

****

**BLOOD IN THE WATER**

**Chesapeake Bay, Maryland**

“Agent Crawford! The divers recovered something. They need you down there now.”

Jack stared out over the bay. The bluff was taped off, the body of Francis Dolarhyde sprawled across the patio. Blood spread like wings around him, unseeing eyes staring at a star-strewn sky. Zeller and Price had arrived just after Jack; they had briefly examined the body before proclaiming Dolarhyde’s cause of death as massive blood loss due to multiple slash and stab wounds.

“And a bite to the throat,” Zeller added with a grimace. 

“No, that’s too tame,” said Price. “This man’s killer ripped his throat out with his teeth.”

_This man’s killer,_ Jack thought, dark images merging and blending like a riptide. _But there wasn’t just one, was there?_

Soon after that, they’d found the camera. Jack forced himself to watch the footage from beginning to end. The term ‘bloodbath’, he decided, had been invented to describe it. The vicious savagery of three predators engaged in a fight to the death, bloodstained and feral with teeth and claws bared, lithe and agile despite their fatal wounds.

Because they _had_ proved fatal, in the end. It was possible that Hannibal and Will could have survived the injuries they’d sustained at the hands of the Great Red Dragon, _if_ they’d called an ambulance, _if_ they hadn’t plunged into the Atlantic on the verge of winter. _If_ Will hadn’t decided that the only way to kill Hannibal was to die with him.

“Agent Crawford? Sir?” 

Jack snapped back to the present, turning to stare down the crime scene photographer, who had been hovering around Dolarhyde’s body for the last hour. It was all so unnecessary, Jack thought. They knew what had happened. They’d all seen it. As far as he was concerned, this case was closed. Motive, means, opportunity. Open, shut. 

“They need you down at the dive site.” The photographer picked nervously at his camera strap. “They found something.”

“Found what?” Jack snapped. Irritation was an adequate placeholder for grief and guilt, he’d found. He couldn’t let himself be overwhelmed now. Not until he was safe at home, where he could pour himself a stiff drink and wallow in the _could’ve should’ve would’ves_ of a world where all this didn’t end on a crumbling bluff suspended over the Atlantic. “What did they find?” Jack said, kindlier this time. 

The photographer smiled, then seemed to realize this was inappropriate and frowned. “Not entirely sure. Agent Price yelled at me to find you. _‘On the double’_ , he said.”

Jack strode past the photographer, hyperaware of the waves battering sharp rocks below. He had a sick feeling that he already knew what the divers had found—what he had expected to find since arriving on the scene only hours ago. 

_At least we’ll have something to bury_. Jack winced as he realized he would be expected to inform Molly of Will’s death. To explain how he had finally pushed him so close to the edge that he threw himself off.

“The tide’s going out,” Zeller said in lieu of greeting. Together they navigated down a flight of perilously slippery steps traversing the cliffs, down to a strip of exposed rock and sand. “The divers found scraps of fabric on the rocks.”

Jack shot Zeller a sharp look. They reached the last step and strode out onto the beach, down the rocky shore toward a cluster of divers huddled around a pile of rocks. “Dr. Price,” Jack barked. 

Jimmy Price immediately extricated himself from the group and jogged to meet Jack. “They found shredded fibers on one of the rocks.” His expression was grim. “And blood. But,” he added with false cheer, “no bodies yet.”

“There’s no way,” Jack said, “that anyone survived that fall.”

Zeller went to stand by Price, so close that their hands brushed. The wind picked up, whistling through the trees on the bluff above. Zeller visibly shuddered. “Not with those wounds,” he said. “That water is what, two eighty-five max?”

“Two eighty-five?” Jack echoed in disbelief. 

“Two eighty-five _Kelvin_ ,” said Price. “Roughly fifty-four or fifty-five degrees Fahrenheit.” 

Jack gave them a _look._ “Then why don’t you just say so?”

Zeller shrugged. “Because it sounds cooler?”

“Actually,” Price held up a finger, “it sounds _hotter_. Two hundred and eighty-five degrees Fahrenheit would be hot enough to set pottery.”

“Or bake certain kinds of temperamental custards,” said Zeller. 

“Temperamental custards.” Clearly Jack’s disdain came through, because Price cleared his throat and changed the subject. 

“Right. Well, at that temperature the average human can survive up to an hour or more, but given the severity of their injuries and blood loss? I’d give them maybe twenty minutes tops.”

“And that’s assuming they missed the rocks and weren’t immediately knocked unconscious by the water. That was no swan dive they took off that cliff. It would’ve been more of a belly flop than anything.”

“A belly flop onto concrete,” said Price.

There was a long silence. Jack sighed, turning toward the waves beating against the craggy shoreline. “Dr. Price, I want you back up at the house. Check for anything we might’ve missed in the initial sweep, specifically prints, if you can find any. It’s unlikely that either Hannibal or Dolarhyde had an accomplice, but if they did, I want to know about it ASAP.”

Price nodded. He pulled out his cellphone, brandishing it at Jack. “I’ll call the instant I find anything.”

Zeller watched him jog off toward the stairs, sighing and crossing his arms. “Oh, to be a fingerprint specialist,” he said, “sent back up to the nice warm house instead of condemned to hours of standing around on this miserable spit of frozen sand.”

Jack frowned. “If they find any bodies, I need you here. I want to have an official COD as soon as physically possible.” _So I can get out of here,_ he thought. _So I can leave this whole shitstorm behind._

“Agent Crawford!” 

Jack turned as one of the divers, still dressed in a wetsuit and dripping from head to toe, strode toward him. He stopped and held out a hand, palm up. “I recovered this.” He uncurled his fingers. “Right next to the rock where we found the fibers.”

Jack shielded his eyes against the floodlight, squinting at the object in the diver’s hand. 

_A ring._ His heart dropped. _A wedding ring._

“Is that Will’s?” said Zeller. “You think he took it off on purpose, or…?”

Jack took the ring. He thanked the diver gruffly, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “Good work. Let me know if you find anything else.”

The diver nodded. “No problem. I mean, of course, sir.” Then he strode back toward the shoreline, stopping to talk to one of his wetsuit-clad colleagues before reentering the water. 

Jack stared up at the crumbling bluff, cordoned off with yellow tape fluttering in the wind. He replayed the video in his mind, over and over again. The way Hannibal and Will clung to each other on the edge, caught between destruction and survival. How Will pressed his face to Hannibal’s chest before throwing them into the bay, Hannibal twisting his body under Will’s as if to cushion his fall, Will holding tight even as he condemned them to death. But what stood out the most was the look on Hannibal’s face, blurry across the distance but unmistakable: the ecstasy of reciprocated love.

. . .

_Five hours earlier…_

Will had no memory of hitting the water. He was falling, and then he was drowning. The tide shoved him against ragged rocks and he kicked off, searching for the light of the moon to guide him back to the surface. The pain of salt in his wounds was overwhelming; the only thing keeping him from passing out was the instinctual knowledge that if he did, he would die. He tried to hold his breath but the pressure in his lungs forced open the gash in his cheek, air escaping through the wound and mixing with the churning water.

For a while Will drifted. It could have been seconds, minutes, eons. Time disappeared and there was only this moment, an image etched in his mind as his vision went white, then black.

_Hannibal,_ he thought, and remembered how he had looked on the cliffside, bathed in blood, a demon in human form. How Will had merged with that strength and vicious purpose, reveling in the ecstasy of the hunt. How he had finally wiped away the mist on the mirror and found Hannibal looking back.

At the thought of Hannibal, determination surged, and Will pushed off hard, slamming into a rock and clinging. He dragged himself up, fighting the current, and finally, _finally_ his head broke the surface. Clinging like a limpet, he scrubbed water from his eyes. 

All around him, the surging waters of Chesapeake Bay came into focus. The tide was high; there was no sign of a beach, although Will swore he’d seen one when they first arrived. _The tide came in,_ he realized. _We should’ve died, but the tide came in._

It had been a test. _If we die, we die, but if we live…_

_We._

_Hannibal._

A wave engulfed him. Panic clawed at his throat, salt in his mouth, iron on his tongue. He had barely managed to hold on to his breath long enough to make it to the surface, and he was significantly less injured than Hannibal. Which meant that, while Will might have gotten lucky and survived…

_We go together,_ thought Will, _or not at all._

And he dove back into the bay.

. . .

Chiyoh found Hannibal floating on his back. The blood staining his shirt and the water around him was disturbing enough; if it weren’t for the movement of his eyes, she would have thought him already dead.

“Hannibal!” she cried. His head turned and his gaze cleared. He smiled, but seemed dazed, far away. _He’s in shock,_ she thought, steering the dinghy toward him with renewed determination, gritting her teeth as the metal hull ground up against a jagged rock. “Hannibal, give me your hand.”

“Chiyoh.” Hannibal’s voice was raspy, pained. He grasped her hand, maneuvering around so that he could use a rock to propel himself over the lip of the boat. He collapsed at her feet, breathing hard, hands pressed to his wounded abdomen. He turned over and coughed, bringing up several mouthfuls of seawater. He ducked his head, clearly struggling to stay upright, then fell onto his side.

“Hannibal, we have to leave now.” Chiyoh put a hand on his shoulder as she moved around to the back of the dinghy. She started the engine. “Before they come looking for you.”

Hannibal shivered, tried to speak, and began coughing again. “No,” he gasped. “I won’t leave Will.”

Chiyoh clasped and unclasped her hands in agitation. “I didn’t see him. The ocean must have taken him.”

Hannibal, to Chiyoh’s surprise, launched himself upright in an incredible display of determination and agility. He clung to the bow of the boat, swaying with the waves, and stared out over the bay with unveiled desperation. “There.” He pointed to a dark shape in the water. As he did, the clouds overhead thinned enough for a beam of moonlight to touch the bay, shards of light dancing with blurred shadows. It illuminated a body snagged up against a rock, the tide foiled in its attempts to tug it out to sea.

Chiyoh, whose original plan had been to grab Hannibal and leave, reluctantly concluded that _not_ saving Will would be more dangerous than saving him. “Sit down, Hannibal.” She grabbed him by the back of his shirt and forced him down. “Stay there. I will save him.”

“Thank you, Chiyoh.” Hannibal’s voice was rough with emotion in a way she hadn’t heard in decades. 

“He threw you off a cliff,” Chiyoh pointed out, but steered the boat toward Will’s body. “And himself. It is likely he wanted to die. Maybe he doesn’t want to be saved.”

Hannibal curled up with both hands over his wound. Even soaked through, half-dead, and covered in seafoam, he wore pride and elegance like a second skin. “He told me that he might not be able to save himself,” said Hannibal. “He seemed willing to accept that.”

“Then it might go against his wishes to rescue him.” Chiyoh kept her tone neutral. “Getting away without risking capture will be hard enough with just us two. You know this.”

“Two’s company, three’s a crowd,” quipped Hannibal. He sounded like he was drifting again, retreating into his head as the waves lurched the dinghy to and fro. “But Will gave me the gift of his Becoming. It would be cruel to deny myself this gift, and to deny him the pleasure of reveling in his newfound freedom.”

“You want to run away with him.” It wasn’t a question. Chiyoh had known from the very moment she realized what Will was: Hannibal’s reflection, their images distorted through a funhouse mirror. “He made me kill my prisoner,” Chiyoh said, before Hannibal could reply. “He set me up so that I would either kill or be killed. And then…” Chiyoh faded off as the boat struck up against the rock where Will’s body lay. His face was tilted to the side as the tide jerked him inexorably out to sea. The only thing keeping him from drifting away was his shirt, which had snagged on the rock, acting as an anchor against the ebb flow. “He made a monument to you out of the body.”

Hannibal’s breathing picked up. The wind blew, stealing the words from his mouth. 

“A human firefly,” Chiyoh said, answering Hannibal’s voiceless question. “He covered the corpse in snails.”

“Chiyoh…” Hannibal’s voice was faint, pained. “I need you to save him for me.”

Chiyoh looked back. Their eyes met. “Yes,” she said. “I can do that. But only for you.”

Hannibal’s eyes closed. For a moment Chiyoh watched him, then turned toward Will’s body. Leaving him would delay and confuse the authorities, diverting their attention away from Hannibal long enough to assure their getaway. However, she foresaw a much larger setback should she leave Will behind: Hannibal’s obsession and devotion would drive him to insanity. In fact, it seemed it already had. Losing Will could be the final blow; Hannibal might not survive it. So she leaned down to disconnect Will’s shirt from the rock, silently berating Hannibal’s inconvenient infatuation. Of all the people in the world, it had to be an FBI agent. A dangerous, murderous, suicidal FBI agent with a proven tendency for betrayal. 

_You betray him again,_ Chiyoh thought as she hoisted Will’s limp body up into the boat, _and I will kill you myself._

Will groaned as he fell into the dinghy. His chest rose and fell rapidly, shallow breaths that went in as gasps and left as coughs. He ducked his head and spit water into the boat. A copious amount of blood dripped out with it; fascinated, Chiyoh leaned in for a better look. 

“Your face.” She gestured to his cheek. “You were stabbed.”

Will collapsed onto his side, panting. “Hannibal,” he said. “Where is he?” He seemed to be floating in the same ethereal state that Hannibal had come out of earlier, like a man in a dream. He moved sluggishly, eyes unfocused, limbs weak. “I need to… I have to find him. Is he dead? He isn’t. He can’t be, he’s _not_.”

Chiyoh narrowed her eyes. “No. He is not dead. He is safe. As are you. If you stay low and do what I say, you will both survive.”

It was then that Will seemed to notice he was lying beside Hannibal. He turned over and pressed himself to Hannibal’s back, bringing a hand around to apply pressure to Hannibal’s wound. “Hannibal,” he whispered. “Hannibal, we lived. Hannibal?”

Hannibal stirred. Although he couldn’t move with Will’s arms around him, he tilted his head, eyes closed but mouth curving into an ecstatic smile. “We did it, Will.” His voice was low. Rough. “You were magnificent.”

Will tucked his face against Hannibal’s neck, tightening his grip. “So were you.”

Chiyoh stepped over them and turned up the motor. Steering the dinghy away from the treacherous shore, she headed out into the bay, watching the house on the bluff fade off the stern. 

“I have a van a few miles from here.” The wind tore at her words, ripping them from her frozen lips. “I have supplies. We can make it out before the FBI finds the house.”

Silence answered. Turning, she found that both her charges were unconscious, Will still clinging to Hannibal with instinctual desperation.

_I can save you from the Atlantic,_ she thought, _but not from each other. One way or another, this deadly game will end._

Aiming for a distant stretch of sandy beach, Chiyoh turned the motor up to its highest setting. The boat skimmed over the waves, tracing the ragged lines of the towering cliffs, chasing moonbeams glancing off dark water.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this story (about 60k words) in three weeks and now it's taking me forever to edit it. Go figure. But even though I still have a ton of editing to do, at least the first draft is complete. :) So yeah! I hope y'all enjoyed this first chapter! <3


	2. The Aftermath

****

**CHAPTER TWO**

****

**THE AFTERMATH**

“Chiyoh!” Will slammed his palm against the barrier separating the front seats from the back of the van. The back seats had been flipped down to make room for a makeshift hospital room; a mattress, several blankets and pillows, and a variety of medical devices and first aid kits covered every inch of the floor. The mattress where Hannibal laid was stained with blood, the makeshift bandages soaked through.

Chiyoh pulled over. The sun hung low on the horizon, dawn brushing the tips of the trees lining the narrow road. Will had no idea where they were, except that they were headed north, away from Chesapeake Bay. By now Jack and the FBI would have arrived at Hannibal’s remote cliffside house, dragging the bay for bodies they would never recover. 

_I wonder if they’ll find the ring._ He flexed his left hand, staring at his bare finger. In the battle for survival, choked by the fear that Hannibal was gone, he had wrenched it off and tossed it into the sea. An offering to unseen gods, a pledge of commitment to the path he had chosen. _I hope they do. I hope they think I’m dead._

The double doors at the back of the van swung open and Will looked up, startled. Chiyoh stood silhouetted in the light of dawn, wreathed in pale light filtering through swaying trees. Her breath escaped in puffs of white, swirling up to join the spattering of clouds. “What do you need?”

“Hannibal’s still bleeding.” Will’s voice shook almost as hard as the rest of him. “He… he’s in shock, and unresponsive. We have to get him somewhere safe where we can treat him.”

“Yes.” Chiyoh’s expression was unreadable. “There’s a safehouse a few miles from here that Hannibal told me about while you were waiting for the Dragon to come.”

“He called you?”

“Yes. Does that surprise you?”

Will smiled, bitter, ignoring the way it tugged at his clumsily bandaged cheek. “No. No, it doesn’t. He’s, uh… he’s always a move ahead, isn’t he?”

Behind them, Hannibal shifted. Will moved back to his side, kneeling, ignoring the way his entire body seized with pain. He was surprised that he hadn’t taken more damage in the fall. Either he’d gotten lucky, or Hannibal had taken the brunt of it. Whether that was intentional or not, Will had no idea. But either way, he wasn’t about to let Hannibal die. Not when the ocean had chosen to spare them.

Chiyoh sprang up into the van and crouched by Will, eyes trained on Hannibal’s face. Darting out a hand, she felt the pulse in his neck. “He’s lost too much blood.” She leaned back, perched on her toes. When she turned her gaze on Will, it was cold as steel. “If he loses any more, he will die.”

 _And there’s nothing we can do about it,_ hung unsaid between them, electric with impending grief. 

Will put a hand on Hannibal’s forehead. He was freezing despite the layers of dry clothes Chiyoh had put on him, and the mile-high pile of blankets cocooning his body from shoulders to toes.

“He needs a transfusion.” Will’s voice broke and he cleared his throat, rubbing at his wounded shoulder—mostly numb, thanks to a local anesthetic—and added, “Do you have the setup to perform one?”

Chiyoh narrowed her eyes. “I think I could put something together.” She grabbed the nearest first aid kit and pried it open. It contained an assortment of IV needles, fluid bags, syringes, and vials of antibiotics and anesthetics. “Yes. I could perform a transfusion, if I had instructions and a cooler full of blood matching Hannibal’s type. But I don’t.” She closed the kit again. “Either he goes to a hospital or he dies.”

“You can use my blood.” Will gripped Chiyoh’s shoulder. She gave him a sharp look and he pulled away, bracing his hand on his knee instead. “I’m O negative. Universal doner.”

“You would be willing to risk your life for him?” She sounded unconvinced. “Even after you tried to kill him?”

Will closed his eyes. “Yeah. I…” He clenched his jaw so tight his cheek burned. “I didn’t bleed as much. I can afford to lose more.”

When he looked up, Chiyoh was watching him with a blend of curiosity and disbelief. “You love him,” she said.

Will looked away. He sat down, leaning against the panel separating the front seats from the back. He threw back his head and stared at the ceiling. “You have a phone, right? Hannibal must’ve called you somehow.”

“I destroyed it. The FBI could have traced the call from Hannibal’s house.”

“Okay. Okay, then just… I was gonna suggest you look up a tutorial on field blood transfusions, but it looks like we’ll have to make this up as we go.”

Chiyoh shifted between Hannibal and Will. The first aid kit rattled as she dug through it. “If we perform the transfusion vein to vein, the pressure will not be enough to force your blood into his body.”

“Then it’ll have to be artery to vein.”

“A direct transfusion could be dangerous. You might lose too much blood.”

Will, who was trying hard not to think about the myriad ways this could go wrong, nodded. “Thanks, I know the risks. But if I don’t do this, Hannibal dies, right?”

Her silence was answer enough. 

“Do it.” Will clenched his fists, turning to watch the shallow rise and fall of Hannibal’s chest. “I’m ready.”

Chiyoh shot him another disbelieving look. She pulled out a cannula needle—an 18 gauge, according to the tiny number etched in the plastic—and attached a second needle to the end of the tube. “The tube has to be short,” Chiyoh said, “or the blood could clot before it enters his body.”

Will nodded. “I… you want me to sit next to him?”

“Yes.” She helped maneuver him so that he was lying down beside Hannibal. 

“Won’t gravity help if I’m sitting up?” Will’s heart pounded. His hands shook, palms slick with sweat. 

“Your heart will do the work.” Chiyoh pulled out a sterile swab, making quick work of the buttons on Will’s shirt before yanking it down to expose his left arm. “You may go unconscious. If you do, the needle could be ripped out. It is better for you to be prone.”

Will tried not to shift too much or let his nerves show as Chiyoh wiped down his upper arm, scrubbing his skin from his shoulder to the crook of his elbow. “How long will it take?”

She didn’t meet his eye as she sterilized the needles, turning to give Hannibal’s arm the same treatment. “I don’t know. I have never done anything like this before.”

Will swallowed, throat suddenly very dry. “How will you know when to stop?”

“I won’t.” She finished cleaning Hannibal’s arm, focusing on the vein in the crook of his elbow, then turned to fix Will with a steely look. “Are you still willing to do this?”

The answer, Will thought, now hovered somewhere between _‘absolutely not’_ and ‘ _fuck no_ ’, but the alternative was unthinkable. “Yes.” He shifted so that his weight was evenly distributed across his back, wincing at the pain in his shoulder. “Do it.”

“Are you one of those people who faints when they get injections?” Chiyoh asked. Before Will could answer, she jabbed a needle into Will’s arm. Arterial blood gushed through the tube; as soon as it was empty of air, she slid the second needle into Hannibal’s vein. 

“Ow.” Will watched blood slip from his body into Hannibal’s. He blinked rapidly, flexing his left hand as his fingers tingled and his heart raced.

Chiyoh fastened the needles with gauze and medical tape. She sat back, eyes gleaming in the dim light, gaze fixed unwaveringly on Hannibal’s face. 

“It’s working.” Will’s voice sounded slurred, far away. He blinked, and the edges of his vision went black. Chiyoh said something but he couldn’t understand her. His ears rang, the frantic pulse of his heart drowning out everything else. Just like in the Atlantic, Will felt himself drifting. Suspended, timeless, bound to a single moment.

He closed his eyes and the world went dark.

. . .

Jack Crawford stepped out of his car onto the icy drive leading to Will’s house. Two cars were parked outside; he recognized one as Molly Graham’s, but the other was unfamiliar—a rental, light grey and unobtrusive. Although Jack didn’t recognize the car, he certainly recognized its driver. 

“Well, well, well,” he said, crunching up the path to the house. “Miss Lounds. I should’ve known.”

Freddie Lounds, who had been engaged in animated conversation with Molly Graham (still looking drawn and pale, cloaked in a heavy winter robe and clutching a steaming cup of coffee) whirled around with a condescending smile on her face. “Jack Crawford,” she said sweetly. “If you wouldn’t mind giving me a moment to wrap up here? We were almost finished.”

“Actually, I do mind.” Jack fixed her with his best ‘fuck around and find out’ glare. “I’m here on official FBI business, which I’m sure you’ll agree outweighs any rights you may have as a citizen journalist.”

Her smile faltered. She turned to Molly, putting a gloved hand on her shoulder. “You have my number,” she said. “Call me whenever you’re ready. I don’t mean to rush you, but it would be good for the world to know the truth.”

Jack snorted. _The truth._ Yeah, right.

Freddie glared at him. Then, with a last smile at Molly, she descended the stairs. She stopped in front of Jack, head tilted as she met his gaze unflinchingly. “Did you read my article?” She lowered her voice so only he could hear. All pretense of goodwill vanished. 

“I did,” said Jack. “As soon as it went up last night.”

“And?”

“And I think you paid off my team’s photographer for exclusive footage of a federal crime scene,” Jack said with as much menace as he could muster. Which was a considerable amount, given everything he’d had to deal with in the past twenty-four hours alone. “I think I could string you up on a number of charges, including trespassing, bribing an officer of the law, and, thanks to the panic your article has already caused across the nation, obstruction of justice. You know how hard it is to catch someone who knows they’re being chased? If… and I mean _if_ … Hannibal Lecter is still alive, you just gave him the best head start he could ask for.”

Unsurprisingly, Freddie showed no signs of remorse. Instead, she lifted her chin, crossed her arms, and said, “I can afford excellent lawyers and you know it. There’s no way you’re picking a legal fight right now, Agent Crawford. And besides, according to the FBI’s official statement, Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham are dead. So what are you worried about?”

“According to _you_ , they’ve eloped to Europe,” Jack complained. “The panic is going to spread world-wide if I don’t shut you down. Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham are dead. But if you keep their memory alive, you’ll inspire others. And if I end up with even _one_ copycat out there because of your tabloid bullshit, I will come after you with every legal weapon in the FBI’s considerable arsenal. And that’s a promise.”

“You can try,” said Freddie. “But I’m sure you have better things to do. And if not? Well, then, I guess I’ll see you in court, Jack.” 

Jack watched her go, fighting the urge to take the bait and say something he’d regret. He sighed, running a hand over his face, and filed that away in the ‘problems for later’ folder in his mental cabinet.

For a moment he stood there in the snowy driveway, gathering himself. He was sure Molly Graham already knew what had happened, but that didn’t make telling her any easier. _Better to get it over with,_ he thought gloomily, and ascended the stairs.

“Molly Graham.” He mustered a smile and held out a gloved hand. “You’re looking much better. I was glad to hear you were cleared to go home.”

Her face was pale and drawn with pain, but where he expected to see grief, there was only weary resignation. “It’s Molly Foster now.” She didn’t shake his hand. “And I checked myself out of the hospital this morning. Wally wanted to go home, and there’s nothing they can do for me there that I can’t do for myself here.”

Jack, who had been prepared to console a grieving widow, was taken aback. “I apologize for Miss Lounds,” he said, resenting being in a position to do so. “She’s shameless.”

Molly smiled wanly. “Would you like to come in?”

“Oh, no.” Jack waved her off. “Thank you. But I’m just here to give you the news in person. I know you’ve already heard, but…” He cleared his throat, swallowing a wave of emotion. “We found something at the scene of the…” He trailed off. _Crime? Accident?_ Nothing came close to describing the footage on Dolarhyde’s tape. “…Found at the scene,” he finished awkwardly. 

Molly’s expression cycled from apprehension to curiosity then back again. “What is it? Do you think he could still be alive?”

“I wish I could tell you,” Jack said, and he honestly did. “But you know I can’t.”

“What is it, then?”

Slipping off a glove, Jack fished the ring out of his pocket. “Here,” he said gruffly, pressing it into her hand. “I thought you should have it.”

She unfolded her hand, staring down at the circle of gold. She swallowed, throat clicking, and closed her eyes. “Thank you.” When she opened her eyes, her lashes were damp with unshed tears. “But I don’t want it. I can’t… I don’t know what I’d do with it.” She smiled, watery but sure. “It would just hurt me to see it lying around. To remember what happened, and that he’s not coming back.”

Jack frowned. “If he _were_ alive,” he said, “do you think your husband would contact you first?”

Molly pressed the ring back into Jack’s hand. “That’s what _she_ asked me.” She gestured to Freddie’s car as it sped down the driveway toward the main road. “And I’ll give you the same answer: No. No, Agent Crawford, I don’t think he would.”

Before Jack could respond, Molly stepped back into the house, reaching for the doorknob. “I’m sorry I couldn’t help more,” she said. “And thank you for trying to return his ring. I appreciate the gesture.”

The door snapped shut behind her. Jack stood there for a long moment, staring at the place where she’d disappeared. And then he tucked Will’s ring back into his pocket and descended the stairs, his heart heavy and his gloveless hand numb from the cold. 

. . .

Molly waited until Jack Crawford’s steps retreated, then slid the bolt into place, trying the handle to make sure it was locked. She leaned against the door, exhaling loudly, tilting her head back as a wave of pain threatened to overwhelm her. Then, tugging her robe tighter around herself, she headed for the kitchen to take her meds and refill her coffee.

Sitting alone at the kitchen table, tracing familiar patterns in polished wood, she found herself beginning to nod off. The day had just begun, but already she was exhausted. Losing one’s husband, being badgered by a rabid tabloid journalist, and having an awkward conversation with the head of the BSU all in one twenty-four-hour period could do that to a person, she supposed. 

She wasn’t sure at first what woke her. She jolted upright, one side of her face stuck to her arm, and shook herself. Winter had come and night was already falling; several hours at least must have passed since she sat down. She had a crick in her neck and the beginning of a headache, but that wasn’t what had jolted her awake.

_Thud. Thud. Thud._

She was on her feet in an instant. Diving for the drawer where she kept her gun (which Will had insisted she keep despite her disdain for guns in general), she grabbed the weapon and crept out of the kitchen toward her son’s bedroom.

_Thud. Thud._

Outside Wally’s door, she paused. Her heart pounded, the gunshot wound in her shoulder throbbing in protest. She checked to make sure the gun’s safety was on—after all, the last thing she wanted to do was accidentally shoot her son—and slowly turned the doorknob.

“Wally?” she whispered as the door creaked open. “Are you in there? What was all that banging?”

Then she noticed the silhouette standing at the foot of her son’s bed, backlit by watery sun filtering through curtained windows. 

“Who are you?” Molly yelled, raising the gun. Her hands shook but she held her ground, aiming at the shadow-man’s tilted head. “Where’s my son?”

“He’s here.” The man moved so that the sunlight illuminated his face… or lack thereof. He wore a black mask, not even his hair or eyes visible in the gloom. And there, held against his chest with a gloved hand over his mouth, was Walter. 

Molly lunged toward her son. She was stopped by a hand on her back, jerking her back and down onto the floor. She screamed, the gun falling from her grasp and sliding across the hardwood. 

“Don’t scream,” the man pinning her down hissed. “We won’t hurt you, or your son. Cooperate and this will be easier for everyone. Okay?”

Molly struggled upright, vision going dark around the edges as the pain in her shoulder flared white-hot. “What do you want?” she gasped. 

Although her captor’s face was obscured, she heard the smile in his voice. “I think you know,” he said. And then there was the pinch of a needle in her neck, and everything went dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not me spending all of Christmas day reading Hannigram fics and playing Sims 4 😩 I hope all of you had (and are having) a good holiday season despite the ol' Rona!


	3. Lost to the Sea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so I originally posted this chapter last Monday but that was when AO3 went down so??? Maybe that's why it didn't post??? I didn't come back to check until last night soooo hopefully this isn't going to be a duplicate post but if it is sorry about that!! I'll have the next chapter up as soon as I find the motivation to edit some more. :D

**CHAPTER THREE**

**LOST TO THE SEA**

Will came to in a tiny motel room that looked like a furnished shipping container and smelled like a bushel of wilting lilacs. His whole body was numb, and his limbs were too heavy to lift. His head felt like a lump of lead, the pressure behind his eyes unbearable. 

“Chiyoh?” His voice was gravelly and unused. “Hannibal?” He wanted to turn his head but couldn’t, his neck too stiff and his skull throbbing viciously.

As his vision refocused and cleared, Will made out Chiyoh sitting at the end of the bed next to his, one hand on Hannibal’s shoulder. Hannibal appeared to be unconscious, draped in blankets with his face turned toward the opposite wall.

“How is he?” Will got out, wincing as the stitches in his face shifted. 

Chiyoh spared him a glance, then went back to staring at Hannibal. “You nearly died. I considered dropping you at a hospital and continuing without you.”

Will felt an overwhelming surge of relief that she hadn’t. Although he could still argue his way back into the civilized world if he had to, he was past wanting to return to his former life. Leaving Hannibal again, especially now, would be unbearable. 

As if she’d read his thoughts, Chiyoh offered a small smile. “He will be fine. The transfusion worked; he is out of danger. For now.”

Will shifted until he could make out the top of Hannibal’s head resting on the motel pillow. Hannibal would be scandalized, Will thought, to be recovering on 200-thread-count sheets. “I’m not a doctor, but given the placement of that GSW, he’ll definitely need surgery.”

“He _did_ need surgery. He woke up just after we crossed the border into Maine. I found an abandoned camp site and he walked me through the process.”

“The process? You mean Hannibal talked you through doing surgery on _himself?_ ”

Chiyoh dipped her head. “And on you. He was lucid for nearly two hours before asking to be sedated. He did not want to risk rupturing the stitches once they were set.”

Will blinked rapidly, squinting at the light on the bedside table. He shifted his jaw, resenting how the skin on his cheek prickled and tugged when he talked. Raising a hand (which took substantial effort), he ran his fingers over the fresh bandages covering his wound. “You better not have fucked up my face.” 

She looked back at Hannibal’s sleeping face. “If I did, you can blame him. He was the lead surgeon during the operation.”

Will laughed. He immediately regretted it, wincing and pressing a hand to his cheek. “Ow. Fuck. So he’s really going to be okay, then?”

“As long as no one finds us.” Chiyoh adjusted Hannibal’s blankets, eyes never leaving his face. “So far it seems they took the bait and believe he is dead. That you both are.”

“The bait?”

“Yes.”

“So all of this—the bluff, the fall, you waiting with the boat—he planned it.”

“I can’t be certain of _all_ of this,” she said slowly, “but he knew what he was getting into.”

“And how to get out of it,” Will said, feeling resentful and impressed in equal measure. “He knew I’d throw us off that cliff if he pulled me too close to the edge. And he knew the tide would come in and we’d survive. He planted the idea in my head when we first got to the house. _‘Soon, all of this will be lost to the sea.’_ That’s what he said.”

“The FBI released a statement saying that there is video evidence that you and Hannibal died that night,” said Chiyoh. “Hannibal told me that Dolarhyde planned to film his death; he made sure he did exactly that.”

Will closed his eyes. “I don’t know why I’m surprised.”

“Are you?”

“No.” Will laughed again, slightly hysterical. “Not really, no. I… guess I just thought that, for once, I was calling the shots. But he knew what I’d do, and he let me do it. He twisted it to his advantage. Like he always does.”

“To _your_ advantage. Both of you lived. You have your freedom, and he has his.”

“Yeah.” Will tilted his head back, sinking into his pillow. “Freedom.” And then he blacked out again.

. . .

As soon as Will was asleep, Chiyoh set off into the growing night to replenish her supplies. The back of the van was full of medical equipment, blankets, and other various and assorted goods, but she foresaw a food shortage once Will started eating again. And Hannibal would be restricted to easily digestible foods until his wound healed, so she’d have to plant for that as well. Escaping the FBI was one thing, but keeping two critically injured criminals alive long enough to smuggle them to safety was another.

Instead of taking the van, which she’d hidden around the back of the building, she walked to the convenience store a few blocks from the motel. The clerk was very chatty, which saved her the trouble of making conversation.

“You hear about that whole thing with the serial killers down south?” The clerk said after a few minutes, gesturing animatedly as he bagged Chiyoh’s groceries. “Crazy, right?”

“Yes,” she said, taking the bags with a smile. “Very.” And she walked out of the store.

Once she’d secured two bags of food (most of which Hannibal would turn his aristocratic nose up at), she located the pharmacy and went to pick up some new painkillers. The stash in the van were mostly prescription antibiotics and anesthetics she’d taken from Hannibal’s safehouse, but it never hurt to have more drugs. Especially since she didn’t know when she would next have the chance to visit a pharmacy.

When she returned to the motel room, Hannibal was awake and alert. He smiled at her, eyes bright with curiosity. “You’ve been shopping,” he said. 

“Yes.” She set the grocery bags on the floor and began rummaging through them. “I wasn’t going to let you starve.”

“Of course not. What a terrible friend you would be.”

“Not as terrible as the friend who tried to kill you.” She couldn’t keep the venom from her tone. “Two times.”

“More than two,” said Hannibal. “And yet afterward he chose to save me, at great risk to his own life.” Hannibal’s gaze slid from Chiyoh to Will, still passed out cold under a pile of blankets. 

Chiyoh frowned. She sorted all the food into one bag and the medical supplies into the other, then set them by the door so she wouldn’t forget them in the morning.

“I thought you were taking us to my safehouse in Vermont?” Hannibal’s tone was mild but laced with concern.

“The FBI got there first,” she said. “They were staking it out. All your properties and identities have been compromised. I was able to recover the medical supplies from the storage room before you escaped, but after that they moved in on it.”

Hannibal didn’t respond, but a flicker of irritation crossed his face. “Ah. That’s a shame. I suppose we’ll have to seek greener pastures elsewhere.”

Chiyoh settled on the end of the bed. “I would suggest leaving the States as soon as possible.”

“You were taking us to Canada, then. Are we in Maine, New York, or Vermont?”

“Caribou, Maine.”

“A small town with a big secret,” Hannibal said. “Hopefully one no one will ever learn.”

“The FBI thinks you are dead.” Chiyoh tilted her head, reading the flash of smug satisfaction on his face. “The only person saying you survived is the journalist Freddie Lounds. She thinks you and Will Graham eloped to Europe together.”

Hannibal laughed. “Miss Lounds is surprisingly perceptive. In fact, I recall she was the first person to recognize Will’s personal affinity for violence. After me, of course.”

Chiyoh watched him shift, noting the stiffness in his muscles. “You hit the water first.”

“Yes.”

“Did you mean to?”

“I know how to fall. If you relax and twist yourself just so, you can break the surface tension without shattering every bone in your body.”

“But did you mean to shield him?” She jerked her head at Will.

“Of course.” Hannibal smiled serenely. “I wasn’t going to let his reckless morality destroy him.”

“Admit it,” she said, matching his soft smile with a coy one. “You enjoyed the theatrics.”

“That I did. And I imagine Jack Crawford and the FBI—and Miss Lounds, who most certainly found a way to glimpse this most sensational of crime scenes—enjoyed the show tremendously.”

Chiyoh thought ‘enjoy’ might not be the right word but didn’t comment. Instead, she stood up and crossed to the door, double locking it and drawing the curtains.

“Since my safehouse has been compromised,” Hannibal said, shifting up so that he was propped against two pillows, “we should look for shelter in the Great White North. A hunting cabin abandoned for the winter would do.”

Chiyoh nodded. “Hunting season is ending. The news predicted snow this weekend.” She waved a hand at the TV mounted on the wall. “It should cover our tracks if the FBI comes looking.”

“Good. I knew I could count on you. I never once doubted you, Chiyoh.”

She smiled. “I’ll protect you,” she said. Then, with a pointed look at Will, she added, “From _anything_ that tries to harm you.” 

“I’m sure you will.” Hannibal returned the smile. “I imagine you have a passport for yourself, but not for either of us.”

“Yes.”

“That could prove troublesome, but there are always ways around any roadblocks we might encounter. I’m sure that, between the three of us, we have more than enough brainpower to outwit Jack Crawford and the FBI.” 

“I hope so.” Chiyoh stood and crossed to the chair beside Hannibal’s bed. It was large and cushy, with enough space between its lumpy arms for her to curl up like a cat, arms folded under her chin and knees tucked to her chest. “You should rest, Hannibal. I will watch over you.”

Hannibal rolled onto his good side, making a face as the sheets shifted against his skin. “I know you will. My guardian angel.”

Hannibal reached over to flick off the bedside light, plunging the room into darkness. Chiyoh stayed curled on the chair, listening until Hannibal’s breathing evened out. Although she didn’t close her eyes, she allowed her mind to drift: a moment’s reprieve from the chaos of the past few days. 

. . .

“When?” Jack gripped the phone in one hand, scrambling for his car keys with the other. “Did anyone see it happen? Was it just Miss Foster, or was her son taken too?”

_“Yeah, they took both of them. We think it happened earlier this evening, but no one saw anything. We got an anonymous tip an hour ago about a kidnapping in that zip code; we made an educated guess that it was the Fosters, and it looks like we were right. Miss Foster’s phone keeps going to voicemail, and the agents who just arrived on-site said there’s no sign of either of them yet.”_

Jack pulled on his jacket, slamming and locking the door behind him. “I’m coming in now,” he said. “And Dr. Price? I want you to keep this under wraps until we know what we’re dealing with.”

_“Aye, aye, Agent Crawford,”_ said Price. _“No one’ll be getting a peep out of me.”_

“And keep Zeller quiet, too. And for the love of God, don’t say a _word_ about Hannibal Lecter or Will Graham.”

There was a beat of silence on the other end. _“Is it possible?”_ said Price. _“Could they have survived that fall?”_

Jack stuck the keys into the ignition and started his car, irritably wiping condensation off the windshield with his sleeve. “What part of ‘don’t say a word about Hannibal Lecter or Will Graham’ didn’t you understand?”

_“Yep, right, not saying a word.”_ Jack imagined Price running a finger over his lips, zipping them together. _“Not one word. Not one single—”_

Jack hung up. Tossing his phone into the passenger seat, he gripped the steering wheel with both hands, palms slick with sweat. _I was there,_ he thought in disbelief. _I was at her house right before it happened._

In his head, he played back his conversation with Molly Foster. She had seemed tired but not agitated, wary but not fearful. Whoever it was who had kidnapped her and her son hadn’t entered the picture yet. If she’d been held at gunpoint (or more likely, her son had been) Jack would have read it on her face. 

“Damnit!” Jack banged a hand on the steering wheel. “Can I have one day? One goddamn day where everything isn’t on fucking fire?”

The answer, of course, was ‘no’. Jack knew this, but thought it worth asking the universe nonetheless.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also! Thank you so much to everyone who has supported this story so far! I'm always super nervous to post more "serious" fics that continue where canon left off because there are so many incredible season 4 fics and honestly y'all are intimidatingly good writers. But yeah, anyway! Thank you all so much! <3 :)


	4. To Every Good Deed Punished

****

**CHAPTER FOUR**

****

**TO EVERY GOOD DEED PUNISHED**

“No fingerprints, no blood, no nothing. Whoever these people are, they’re careful.”

Jack eyed Price and Zeller over his desk. They looked cold and disheveled, having just arrived from the crime scene. Price was still wearing a pair of wooly mittens, and Zeller’s hair was messy and wet from melted snow.

“None of the neighbors saw anything,” said Zeller, and Price nodded emphatically. 

“Probably because the closest neighbors are a quarter of a mile away.”

“Yep, that might have something to do with it.”

Jack sighed. He propped himself up on one elbow, passing a hand over his face. “So you’ve got nothing at all to go on.”

“Nada.”

“Zip.”

“Zilch.”

“Excellent,” said Jack gloomily. “Are there still people on-site?”

“Probably. We left the party early.”

Price made a sweeping gesture around Jack’s office. “We came back just for you. Didn’t want you to have to drive all that way alone.”

Jack raised his eyebrows. “All that way.”

“I mean, it _is_ over four hours in this weather, so—” Price began, but was interrupted by a knock at the door. 

“Come in,” said Jack, feeling extremely bad-tempered at being interrupted mid-briefing. 

The door swung open. A woman in a grey suit, her short blonde hair neatly styled to one side, entered, her icy gaze sweeping the room.

Jack swore under his breath. “Dr. Zeller, Dr. Price. If you would excuse us for a moment.”

“But Agent Crawford—”

“Out.” Jack gave them a stern, meaningful look. “You can wait outside.”

“No,” said the blonde woman. “They may not.”

Price and Zeller exchanged a disgruntled look but traipsed out without further ado. “You want this door closed?” asked Price, and Jack nodded. The door slid shut, snapping into place with a dull _click._

“Before you start,” Jack said, not bothering with formalities, “I know why you’re here.”

Kade Prurnell fixed him with a severe look. “Then I hope you’re not planning on getting involved.” She shot a pointed look at the door. “More than you already are, that is.”

Jack sighed. His day was already fucked, so why not add a little more fuel to the dumpster fire? “I understand that—” 

“What you should understand, Agent Crawford, is that you are being suspended. Your involvement in the Francis Dolarhyde case, and the subsequent escape of Hannibal Lecter and his accomplice—”

“Will Graham is— _was_ —notan accomplice,” Jack said, suddenly overwhelmed with the sort of righteous anger usually reserved for preachers and crusaders. “His assignment was to fake Lecter’s escape and take down Dolarhyde. He did exactly what I told him to.”

“ _Fake_ an escape?” said Prurnell emphatically. “From what I understand, Hannibal Lecter’s escape was genuine. And the officers and agents who died as a result of Dolarhyde’s attack on his transport team? Were their deaths faked as well?”

“No,” said Jack, although it was clearly a rhetorical question. “No they were not. And I’m prepared to face the consequences of the part I played in that operation, but—”

“But nothing.” Prurnell took a step toward his desk, then stopped, her expression scathing. “The consequences have arrived, Agent Crawford. You’re suspended until this whole disastrous business is sorted out and we decide whether or not we can excuse your part in it.”

Fuming, Jack rose to his feet, pushing back his chair and glaring at her over his desk. “Hannibal Lecter is dead. I’m sure you’ve seen the tape. No one could’ve survived that fall. The dive team confirmed that when they scoped out the shoreline and found blood on the rocks; unless they carefully planned exactly how, where, and when to fall, it’s almost irrefutable that they’re dead.”

“Almost,” said Prurnell. “ _Almost_ irrefutable. And,” she added, before he could respond, “ _they_ may very well have planned it.”

“I told you,” Jack said firmly, “that Will Graham is not considered an accomplice to Lecter. He died taking him down.”

Prurnell lifted her chin, eyes narrowed. “He may not be Lecter’s accomplice, but he is undeniably yours. However, I’m not here to argue about Will Graham’s innocence, or lack thereof. This is about you. You’ve been stepping over lines for years now, Agent Crawford. Don’t be surprised that you’ve finally gone one step too far.”

“Dolarhyde’s dead.” Jack stared her down, refusing to give an inch. “Lecter’s dead. I did what I had to do, and there are families out there alive now that wouldn’t be otherwise.”

Prurnell turned away, pacing across the room and resting her hand on the doorknob. Glancing back over her shoulder, she fixed Jack with a cold, appraising look. “What matters is that you broke the rules, Agent Crawford. Again. And innocent or not, Will Graham is dead, and that’s on you.”

She paused as if waiting for him to respond. When he stayed stubbornly silent, she sighed, opening the door. “If I hear that you’re working a case— _any_ case, but especially the disappearance of Molly Graham—I will personally make sure that you are fired on the spot. Understood?”

Jack glared at her. “Oh, I understand you just fine.”

“Good,” she said with crisp finality. “Good afternoon, Agent Crawford. The Inspector General’s Office will contact you if we have further questions or requests.” 

The door swung shut behind her with a solemn _click._ Jack fell back into his chair, head in his hands as he braced himself with both elbows on his desk. “Questions or requests,” he growled. Opening his desk drawer, he pulled out a glass and a tiny bottle of whisky that someone had given him as a gift several years before (and which he kept around for this exact purpose). He poured himself a drink. 

“Here’s to the complete deterioration of my life and career.” He raised the glass in a mock toast. “And to every good deed punished.”

. . .

“We’re gonna have to risk it.” Will swung his legs over the side of the bed, gritting his teeth against a wave of pain and nausea. He braced his elbows on his knees, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes. “It’s unlikely anyone knows we’re alive, but if they _do_ , border security will be all over us the instant we try to cross into Canada.”

Chiyoh paced the room, footsteps light and silent. “Air travel is far too dangerous,” she said. “If anyone recognizes you or Hannibal, there will be nowhere to run.”

Will lifted his head. His cheek was stiff and enflamed, and his shoulder wasn’t any better off. According to Chiyoh, he’d slept for two days straight, but secretly he thought he could do with another week or two. “Airports are off limits for sure. No way we’d make it undetected.”

Chiyoh paused by Hannibal’s bed, tilting her head as she examined him. He was still asleep; Chiyoh informed Will that he’d been awake briefly—just long enough to drink and eat—before slipping back under. Will felt a surge of resentment that she hadn’t woken him, but honestly, could he blame her? In her place, he probably would have done the same. As far as Chiyoh knew, Hannibal and Will’s relationship revolved around mutually assured destruction. Which (and Will resented this even more) was not far from the truth.

“We have to make an attempt to cross the border before security tightens.” Chiyoh began pacing again, darting occasional glances out the half-curtained window. “We should go now. Before the back roads are too icy to traverse.”

Will nodded. “You have a passport, right?”

“I do. But you and Hannibal would have to hide.”

“That doesn’t sound promising. The last thing we need is to be captured at a border checkpoint.”

Chiyoh turned her unreadable gaze on him. “If we were, would you kill the border guards?”

Will looked away, instinctually picking at the place where his wedding ring used to be. Sighing, he shrugged his good shoulder. “I can’t say what I’d do or not do in a situation like that.”

For a moment he thought Chiyoh would ask another loaded question, but she turned away, back toward Hannibal’s bed. “I will do whatever it takes to keep him safe. I need to know that you will, too.”

_Whatever’s necessary,_ Will thought, _and then some._ Aloud, he said, “You can trust me with his safety. I’m not going to try to kill him again.”

She gave him a look that clearly translated to _‘good, because if you do, that will be the_ last _thing you try to do’._

“We’ve got medicine, food, supplies.” Will stood up, gripping the headboard for support, and took a few deep breaths. His vision swam, the room blending and blurring before settling into place. “If we can find an unofficial road—a recreational trail, a service road, or hell, even a hunting route—we can bypass border security altogether.” 

Chiyoh gave him a curious look. “Something tells me it will not be that easy.”

“Probably not. But if we’re stopped, it’ll be in the middle of nowhere. The fewer people on the scene, the less chance we’re recognized or overpowered.”

Chiyoh returned to Hannibal’s bedside, settling in her chair. She brushed an errant strand of silver-blonde from his forehead. “There’s a snowstorm expected tomorrow. We will have to leave tonight if we want to make it before driving conditions became too dangerous.”

Will frowned. A surge of something perilously close to jealousy hit him as Chiyoh ran her nimble marksman’s fingers over Hannibal’s cheek. “I’m ready to go whenever,” he said, a bit too loudly. 

She shot him a reproachful look. Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out the van keys. “Catch,” she said.

Instinctually, Will reached for them with his right hand. Chiyoh had bandaged his shoulder but, due to Will’s recent occupation as a full-time napper, hadn’t bothered to make a sling. The result was that he severely overestimated his range of motion, gasping and swaying as a sickening wave of pain doused him like ice water. The keys fell onto the carpet with a muffled _thud._

Chiyoh slunk off the chair and picked up the keys. She pressed them into his left hand, giving him another glacial look. “Park the van as close as you can to the door. I don’t want to risk anyone seeing Hannibal when I move him.”

Will nodded. Clenching his jaw against the pain, he crossed to the motel door, unlocked the latches, and stepped out into the bitter cold of approaching winter. 

The van wasn’t made for ice and snow. Chiyoh had to stop to buy chains for the tires halfway to the border, and Will nearly tore his stitches trying to help her put them on. After that she banished him to the back, the doors slamming behind him. He listened to her clanking around outside for a few minutes before the engine started again and they swerved back onto the road.

At first the journey was smooth, but as they veered off the main roads, which were narrow and icy enough as it was, it got considerably rougher. The van’s back windows were tiny and tinted; Will quickly began feeling carsick. He distracted himself by watching Hannibal sleep, sitting on the makeshift mattress beside him as Chiyoh guided the vehicle through the uneven terrain.

About half an hour into the trip, Chiyoh rapped on the divider screen. Will, who was half asleep, jolted and sat up, meeting her gaze through the plastiglass. 

“We’re past the border,” she said. “I took a service road that connects to a snowmobile track.”

Will nodded. “Now what?”

“I go back to the main road. We circumnavigated the checkpoint. As long as we are not pulled over, we should make it.”

“Okay. I’ll, uh. I’m just gonna tune out for a bit. Knock on this—” he tapped the plastic divider, “—if you need me.” 

Chiyoh turned away, hands on the wheel, facing the road. “If Hannibal’s condition changes, let me know immediately.” Her voice was muffled by the screen, but the concern and dedication in her tone was clear.

“Yeah.” Will settled on the mattress, putting a hand on Hannibal’s shoulder. “I will.”

Another half hour passed, then an hour, and Will drifted into a state that wasn’t quite awareness and wasn’t quite sleep. It wasn’t until he heard the sound of sirens that he shot up, reaching for a gun that wasn’t there. He stayed low as the van drifted onto the side of the road, the sirens abruptly cutting off behind them.

Will held his breath as Chiyoh rolled down her window. He put a hand on Hannibal’s cheek, ready to slip it over his mouth if need be. 

“Good evening, ma’am,” said a male voice. “Do you mind showing me your license and registration?”

“Not at all,” came Chiyoh’s smooth reply. There was the _click_ of the glovebox opening, then the shuffling of papers. “Here. I have my passport, too, if you want to see it.”

“No, no, that’s fine.” 

Will lifted his head enough to glimpse the man at the window. He was tall, handsome, with blonde hair and grey eyes. He smiled at Chiyoh as he handed back her papers. 

“I see you have a taillight out,” he said. “Just wanted to let you know. Sorry about the sirens, but I wasn’t sure I could get your attention otherwise. These streets are so dark at night, and visibility can be shit. Excuse my language,” he added sincerely. 

Chiyoh nodded. “Are you sure you don’t want to see my passport?” she said. 

The officer gave her a confused but good-natured look. “No, no, that’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”

“Aren’t you curious how I got all the way out here? Don’t you want to make sure I came in on the main road?”

_What the fuck are you doing?_ Will’s heart raced. _Just shut up before he gets suspicious._

Unfortunately, judging by the look on the cop’s face, he was already suspicious. “Ma’am, do you mind if I take a look in the back of your vehicle?”

Chiyoh glanced back. For the briefest moment, her eyes locked with Will’s. “Not at all,” she said, with the ghost of a smile.

The man at the window disappeared. Snow crunched as he moved around the van. The latch on the double doors clicked as he wrenched them open.

Will didn’t stop to think. The primal part of his brain took over and he grabbed the nearest sharp object—a scalpel, its tip covered by a plastic cap—and pounced on the cop. As he did, he wrenched off the protective cap, cutting himself in the process. Blood trickled down his palm; he snarled, vicious and feral.

The cop gave a startled shout that cut off as Will pinned him in the snow with a hand around his throat. He struggled, reaching for his gun. Will slashed out, cutting his wrist open. Blood sprayed in the snow, a mist of red on white. The cop struggled harder, rolling away long enough to draw his weapon.

Will barely avoided the first shot. The second grazed his wounded shoulder, but he didn’t feel it. His body surged with adrenaline, heart pounding, muscles trembling with the thrill of the fight. 

“Stay back!” the cop panted, hands shaking as he leveled the gun at Will’s chest. Blood poured from his slashed wrist in a crimson geyser. His eyes were wild, hair disheveled, sweat beading on his forehead despite the frigid night air.

Will froze. For a moment he stood still, knees bent, crouched and ready. Then he feinted to the side, ducked under the cop’s raised arms, and threw him down. In a haze of exaltation and anticipation, Will seized the cop’s wrist, twisting until he screamed. The gun fell in the snow with a dull _crunch_. 

“No!” The cop twisted, fighting for his life. His free hand scrabbled at the gun, but he couldn’t quite reach. Will wrapped a hand around his throat, clamping down. 

“Close,” he said, and picked up the gun, “but not close enough.”

Holding the cop down with a knee on his chest and a hand on his throat, Will raised the gun.

“No,” the cop cried, thrashing. “Please, no, I won’t tell anyone, I swear—”

“I know,” Will said. “I know you won’t.” He tossed the gun aside. For a brief moment, the cop’s face crumpled with relief. Then Will picked up the scalpel. The point flashed in the waning moonlight as he brought it down in a silver arc. 

Blood painted the snow as the cop’s throat opened. Will released his grip but stayed in place, red flecking his bare hands and face. As the light dimmed in the cop’s panicked eyes, Will leaned down, voice steady despite his racing heart and shaking hands. “Two can keep a secret if one of them is dead.” 

The man choked, shuddered, and stilled. Will stayed kneeling on his chest, still gripping the scalpel tight. The blood on his hands and face was already cooling; his skin felt feverish in comparison. 

As the adrenaline faded, the civilized part of his brain retook control. Standing up and staggering back, he fell in the snow. His heart raced, but for a different reason now. “Oh, fuck,” he said. The gravity of the situation sunk in like a knife, stealing the air from his lungs. “Oh, God.” 

Behind him, someone said his name. Over and over, soft at first, then loud and demanding. “Will. _Will._ Look at me.”

Will struggled to his feet. His brain was full of static, hands tacky with drying blood. For a moment he stared at the cop’s corpse in the snow. Then he turned toward the van.

Hannibal was watching him with a rapturous mix of pride and admiration. “Come here,” he said. “Come here, Will.”

Will knew how he must look in that instant: wild and skittish and covered in blood, poised to run at the slightest provocation. “I…” His voice broke. He rubbed at his face with his sleeve. It came away smeared with red. He stared at it, incredulous. _I didn’t mean to,_ he wanted to say. But hadn’t he? He’d had the chance not to. He’d had several chances not to, but he had. 

_He was going to kill me,_ he told himself. _It was me or him._

He closed his eyes. The cop’s face swam through his memory, terrified and desperate as he held Will at gunpoint. The cop hadn’t taken the shot. He could have, and he hadn’t.

And Will had killed him anyway.

“ _Will.”_ Hannibal’s voice was sharp, commanding. “Someone may have heard those shots. You need to dispose of the body, and the car. We can’t leave a trace. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” Will heard himself say. “Hannibal…”

“It’s okay, Will.” Hannibal’s voice softened. He held out a hand, propped up against the plastiglass divider but looking stronger than he had since the fall. “Come here.”

And Will, driven by a desperate need for comfort, climbed into the van. Falling to his knees in front of Hannibal, he forced a shaky smile. “I bet you’re feeling pretty damn smug right about now,” he whispered.

Hannibal smiled. “Yes,” he said. “But I’m also concerned. Are you hurt?”

“Yeah, he got me. Barely. Just a graze, nothing to worry about. Not compared to—” he gestured to Hannibal’s bandaged flank, “—everything else.” 

Hannibal tilted his head and lifted his chin, smile giving way to a pensive look. And then he raised a hand to cup Will’s cheek—the wounded one, still taped and packed with gauze—before sliding his hand around to grip the back of Will’s neck. Without a word, he drew him in. Mirroring their embrace on the cliff, Will pressed his face to Hannibal’s shoulder, grasping desperately at his shoulders. “You did so well,” Hannibal whispered. “But you need to deal with the body. I imagine Chiyoh will help if you ask.”

Will jolted out of his shock-induced trance. Jerking back, he blinked rapidly, suddenly unable to meet Hannibal’s gaze. _Chiyoh,_ he thought with a pang of bitterness. _This is her fault._

“Will? What is it?”

“I’ll deal with it myself.” Will’s voice didn’t sound like his own: a low growl, icy, sharp. “I’ll be back.” Pushing himself to his feet, he shoved past the double doors and landed awkwardly in the pink-tinged snow. 

“Will,” Hannibal said. Will ignored him. Taking a deep breath, he surveyed the carnage. “Will, you should ask Chiyoh to help you. We wouldn’t want you tearing your stitches.”

“Shut up, Hannibal,” Will said. “I swear to God. Just shut up.”

Before Hannibal could reply, Will closed the van doors. And then, trying not to think about what he was doing, he walked back to the cop’s body and knelt beside it. “God,” he said. “I fucked up.”

And in that instant, kneeling in a patch of bloody snow, he realized that the worst part wasn’t that he’d killed a cop. It wasn’t that he’d taken an innocent life. The worst part was that he didn’t feel guilty at all.

“I’m sorry.” The words fell flat.The vast wilderness swallowed his voice. Snow melted under his knees, soaking into his pants. “I should be sorry,” he told the cooling corpse. “I’m not. But I should be.” His voice cracked. He felt nothing at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not to be dramatic but *screams into the endless void* Okay cool anyway!! Hope y'all enjoy this chapter! I rewrote it like five times because I hated the pacing but hopefully this version is okay. :)


	5. Dichotomies

****

**CHAPTER FIVE**

**DICHOTOMIES**

Jack woke up at way-too-early o’clock to the sound of someone hammering on the front door. Scrambling out of bed, he struggled into his clothes, tucking his gun into the waistband of his pants. “I can hear you!” he bellowed as the knocking continued. “Give me a damn minute.”

Before opening the door, he peered through the peephole. He was ninety-nine percent sure it was just a particularly determined salesman or postal worker, but he knew better than to ignore that one percent. 

Unfortunately for his prospects of getting back to sleep, it was neither of those things.

“Agent Crawford!” Zeller yelled, banging on the door again. 

“Jack!” Price tried, banging even harder. “Get out here, this is important.”

“For God’s sake,” Jack exploded, yanking open the door with entirely too much force. “It’s four AM in the goddamn morning. Don’t you two have anything better to do than make a bad situation worse?”

“Actually,” said Zeller, looking only mildly put off by having the head of the BSU yelling in his face, “we’re here because of a bad situation that just got worse.”

“Correct,” said Price. “Sorry about the knocking.”

“It’s important,” Zeller added with a solemn look.

“If it’s so damn important,” Jack said, holding on to his composure by a thread, “then tell me what happened. Right now.”

“Freddie Lounds,” Price said at the exact same time that Zeller bust out with, “The TattleCrime.”

“Now I want to make something excruciatingly clear.” Jack straightened up, tucking his shirt into his pants to make himself slightly more presentable, and therefore more intimidating. “If you two showed up at my house at four in the morning to talk to me about the TattleCrime, I will not be held accountable for my actions.”

Zeller made a face. “I think you’ve already been held more than accountable. I’m sorry about you getting suspended. I mean, Prurnell has been waiting to get you on something for years. Ever since that whole fiasco with Hannibal back when—”

“Yes, thank you, my memory works just fine.” Jack ran a hand over his face. “What about Freddie Lounds?”

“We have a theory,” said Price.

“Actually, we have a _hypothesis._ ”

“Right. And do you want to tell him about our _hypothesis,_ or should I?”

“No, go ahead. You tell him.”

“Okay. So we have this hypothesis. We think Freddie Lounds knows who the kidnappers are.”

“Or,” Zeller added, “she at least knows something about them.”

Jack raised his eyebrows. “And why have you hypothesized that?”

Zeller and Price exchanged a loaded glance. “Because of the article she wrote.”

Jack sighed heavily. “Another one? Let me guess: this one was about Molly Foster’s disappearance.”

“Yes,” said Price, “ _but,_ she mentions Walter Foster’s disappearance as well.”

Realization hit Jack like a blow to the face. “That information hadn’t been released to the general public when that article went up, I assume?”

“You assume correctly,” said Zeller. “There’s no way Lounds knew about Walter Foster’s kidnapping that soon after it happened. Even if she rushed to the crime scene and wrote the article on-site, there’s just no way.”

“Not unless she knew about it _before_ it happened,” added Price.

Jack paused for a moment, taking this in. His head throbbed; he pressed his fingers to his temples, wincing. “You two know that I can’t get involved.”

“No, of course not,” said Zeller. “We know.”

“But we just had to tell you.”

“To see if you thought it was suspicious.”

“Oh,” said Jack, “I think it’s suspicious, all right.”

“So, theoretically—”

“Hypothetically—”

“ _Hypothetically_ , would you suggest looking into Freddie Lounds as a possible accomplice? Or at least a person of interest?”

Jack gave them a hard look. “As far as anyone is concerned, you were never here. I never heard any of this. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Sir,” said Price, snapping to attention. “But _hypothetically_ —”

“Hypothetically,” said Jack, “I would suggest you follow up on that lead as quickly and thoroughly as possible.”

“Hypothetically,” Zeller echoed. “Of course.”

“Of course.”

Price and Zeller glanced at each other again, shifting in tandem, hands brushing. “Well,” said Price briskly, “I guess we should be off, then.”

“Yes, Dr. Price, I suppose we should.”

Price shot Jack a guilty look. “Sorry again about the knocking.”

Zeller, who was already heading back to their car, made a show of looking around in confusion. “Who are you talking to, there, Jimmy?” he said. “I don’t see anyone else around.”

“Oh, that’s weird,” said Price, catching on. “I guess I was talking to myself. Silly old me.”

“Alright, that’s enough,” snapped Jack. “Now get off my porch before Prurnell and her bureaucratic watchdogs show up and throw me out for good.”

“Hmm, can you hear someone talking, Brian?” Price said, following Zeller to the car. Zeller shook his head. “Huh. Must have been the wind.”

As they got in their car, Jack slammed the door and locked it. The sun hadn’t risen yet; he hadn’t taken the time to turn on the hallway lights, so the house was dark and cold. 

Sighing heavily, he headed to the kitchen to brew some coffee. There was no way he was getting back to sleep after that, and besides, he was genuinely intrigued by the idea that Freddie Lounds might be involved in the Foster case. Not that he could (legally) do anything to pursue it, but he wasn’t banned from reading the TattleCrime (although part of him wished he was).

With his coffee in one hand and his computer in the other, Jack settled on the living room couch. As he waited for his computer to boot up, he stared at the picture he’d put in a place of honor on the table: a shot of Bella on their wedding day, smiling and laughing, resplendent in white. 

“You’d know what to say,” he told the picture. Bella smiled her radiant smile, frozen in a moment of unadulterated joy. With another soul-deep sigh, Jack braced his elbows on his knees, lowering his face into his hands. “You always did.”

His computer chirped. Jack ignored it. For a long time he didn’t move, head in his hands, eyes squeezed shut. Then he pulled his computer into his lap and got to work.

. . .

The town of Murdochville, New Brunswick was small and snow-clad; it was remote as well, making it the perfect place to lie low. 

Ever since the incident with the cop (‘incident’ was a kind word for it, but Will’s sanity was delicate enough without debating semantics), Will had remained curled on his side in the back of the van, avoiding Hannibal’s attempts at conversation by pretending to be asleep. Not that he could deceive Hannibal; his senses were too sharp for that. But the longer Will could delay talking to Hannibal about the future, the better.

Chiyoh stopped for supplies at a tiny grocery store near the center of town. As soon as the driver’s side door slammed shut behind her, Hannibal picked up where he’d left off, voice soft but determined.

“Will, I know you can hear me.”

“No, I can’t,” said Will.

“Will.”

“Hannibal.”

Hannibal sighed. “What did you do with the body?” he asked, for what must have been the billionth time.

Will curled in on himself, tucking his face against his injured arm. “What do you think I did?”

“I think you had to dispose of the car as well and decided that it would be better to disguise it as an accident. So you drove the body to a nearby water source—water, of course, to wash away remnant evidence—and obscured the vehicle from aerial view. A lake, perhaps; it would have to be big enough to hold a police cruiser.” Hannibal paused, then continued. “You strapped the corpse into the front seat, broke the windshield, and mutilated the body to give the appearance of an accidental death. Then you pushed the car into the lake, completing the picture of an unfortunate officer who, in the midst of a blizzard, veered off the road and met his fate in the unforgiving wilderness of the Far North.”

“That’s not what happened,” Will snapped, even though it was. “I didn’t… _mutilate_ the body. I just…” This time, semantics didn’t spare him his sanity. “Fine. I mutilated the body. But I did what I had to do. And it wasn’t murder.”

“Yes, it was.” Hannibal sounded almost serene. “There is nothing to be ashamed of, Will. You did what any predator would do when faced with a threat to you and your loved ones.”

The easy way Hannibal said ‘loved ones’ took Will off guard. He opened his mouth then closed it again, staring into the darkness. “It was self-defense. Not murder.”

“The two aren’t mutually exclusive. Do you think every person I’ve killed in self-defense had the chance to fight back?”

Will closed his eyes. Unbidden, Beverly Katz’s face flashed through his memory; he winced, shaking his head. “Oh, I bet you’ve justified plenty of things to yourself.” 

“Although not as many as you have to yourself.”

Will didn’t have a good answer to this, so he stayed silent. 

“Was I right about the rest? You drove the car into a lake with the body inside?”

“I did.”

“Good boy.”

Will was about to protest the use of ‘boy’ (again, semantics), but just then Chiyoh wrenched open the back doors, tossing in two bags of groceries. “There is a place near here known for good hunting,” she said. “There will be cabins there. Their owners won’t return until spring.”

Before Hannibal or Will could reply, she shut the doors and locked them. Then the van’s engine started, and they were off again, bumping down a potholed road as the first flakes of the blizzard began to fall.

. . .

Although the journey couldn’t have taken more than half an hour, Hannibal felt like decades had passed by the time Chiyoh located a vacated hunting cabin just outside Murdochville. Between the incessant burning of his injury and the wearisome tension radiating off Will, he was more than ready to get in bed and sleep for a week. Unfortunately, before he could accomplish that goal, he would have to get to the cabin. 

Chiyoh tried to make the ordeal as easy as possible, stabilizing him with both arms around his chest and shoulders, but despite her best efforts he was thoroughly cold and miserable by the time she locked the door behind him. 

Will, who had lurked inside as Chiyoh guided Hannibal into the cabin, turned away as soon as Chiyoh lit a gas lamp, illuminating the small but cozy living space. Crossing to the far window, he stood with his right arm cradled to his chest, snowflakes melting in his dark hair.

“Here.” Chiyoh gestured to a couch draped with blankets. “Lie down. I’ll make food.”

Hannibal settled on the couch, allowing Chiyoh to smother him in blankets. As she moved away, no longer obscuring his view of the room, his attention fell on Will.

Will, seemingly sensing Hannibal’s gaze, glanced over his shoulder. “Breaking into cabins in the woods,” Will said sardonically. “Guess we’re no better than Ted Bundy now.”

Hannibal, who took enormous offense at this comparison, glared at Will. “Do you truly believe that, Will? Would you compare our art to the vicious, sexually-motivated slaughter of young women?”

Although Hannibal couldn’t see Will’s face in the gloom, he suspected that he’d just rolled his eyes. “You’ve viciously slaughtered young women.”

“Yes. But my motives were significantly more tasteful, wouldn’t you agree?”

Will made a sound that wasn’t quite affirmation or negation. 

“Will.” Hannibal sat up. “Come sit with me.”

Will turned, watching warily from the shadows. “Why?”

“Because it’s cold.” Hannibal offered his most genuine smile. “There’s a storm blowing in, and both of us are still recovering from a severe ordeal. Medically, and mentally.”

Will gave him an incredulous look. “You want to cuddle?”

“Would that be so terrible?”

Will took a step toward the couch then paused, frowning. He glanced at Chiyoh, busy at work unloading the groceries into a makeshift freezer. “I don’t think there’s enough room on there for both of us.”

Hannibal moved his legs, making room. “There’s plenty of space.”

Looking like he’d just been asked to cut off his own finger, Will relented. As he lowered himself onto the couch, he glanced sideways at Hannibal, then away again. 

“You don’t have to look so martyred about it,” Hannibal chastised. “And I doubt either of us will be any warmer with you all the way over there.”

With the same syrup-slow reluctance, Will shifted partway under the blankets. “There. Is this good enough for you?”

Hannibal sighed. “What do I have to say to make you trust me, Will?”

“I trust you.” Will looked surprised at how easily that slipped out. He met Hannibal’s eyes directly this time, shoulders back, chin up. “I’m just not comfortable—”

“You’d be a lot more comfortable if you relaxed. I’m not asking you for anything more than comfort.”

“You, asking for comfort. What has the world come to?”

“Despite my reputation as a monster,” Hannibal said resentfully, “I am human, and humans have emotional needs as well as physical ones. I crave intimacy as much as any social creature. As do you.”

Hannibal noted how Will flinched at the word ‘intimacy’. Struck by a sudden realization, he asked, “Do you consider our relationship romantic, Will?”

Will shot him a startled look. “I… no. Not really. I mean… it’s _not_ , is it?”

Hannibal tilted his head, contemplating the emotions flickering like static across Will’s face. “It’s whatever you want it to be.”

“It’s not _sexual_ , if that’s what you’re asking.” Will looked out the snow-dusted window beyond the circle of light from the gas lamp. He cleared his throat, shifting awkwardly. “I’m not gay.”

“Of course you’re not,” said Hannibal. “Neither am I.”

Will was quiet for a long beat. “Bedelia said you’re in love with me,” he said. Hannibal noticed his hands were shaking. 

Chiyoh, who had been in the process of boiling water for tea, shot Hannibal a startled look. He smiled, projecting a calm exterior despite a jarring rush of emotion. “Chiyoh,” he said mildly, “would you mind giving us a moment? You should have the pick of the bedrooms, after all: you’ve done more than enough to earn it.”

Chiyoh gave him a grateful look. She made for the hallway, disappearing into the smaller bedroom, pulling the door shut behind her.

“Dr. Du Maurier has always been extremely perceptive,” Hannibal said, returning his attention to Will. “I’m glad to hear you spoke to her. I’m sure she had many revelations to share with you.”

“And I with her.” Will smiled, a twisted, humorless thing. “She knows you’ll come after her.”

“Of course she does.” Hannibal tried to catch Will’s eye, but Will looked away. “Like I said, she is extremely intelligent.”

A flicker of something dark crossed Will’s face. It took a moment for Hannibal to identify it, but when he did, he felt a burst of satisfaction: _jealousy._

“So you are,” said Will, still staring out the window. “You’re in love with me.”

“I had hoped that would be obvious by now.”

“But you’re not gay.”

“No. I consider myself pansexual, or omnisexual. Sexuality, like morality, falls on a scale. Each person’s lived reality is often irrelevant in the context of another’s. Imagine how boring the world would be if there were only two genders, two sexualities, two opposing moral alignments. Dichotomies are a creation of humanity, not nature. No two emotions fall on opposite ends of an even divide, and neither do people. Love is experienced in myriad ways, Will. Don’t confine yourself to the box society has built around you.” 

Will didn’t respond right away. Hannibal let the silence rest between them, heavy and contemplative. Silence that spoke, an assurance that Hannibal’s words hadn’t merely glanced off Will’s emotional armor, a forgotten revelation banished to the shadowed corners of his mind. 

And then, “I don’t know what I am,” Will said. It sounded like a confession. “I’ve had relationships—not a lot of them, to be honest—but they were always… I don’t know.”

“A veneer of normalcy cloaking forbidden desires?”

Will shrugged his uninjured shoulder. “Something like that.”

“Have you ever had relationships with men?”

“I’ve imagined it.”

“And not just with me.”

Will rolled his eyes. “No. Not just with you.”

Hannibal repressed a smile. The last thing he wanted was for Will to think he wasn’t taking this seriously. “Apologies for being so direct, but there’s no use hiding from truths long since acknowledged.”

“I haven’t acknowledged shit.”

“Not aloud. But how many of our conversations have taken place in the quiet gaps between words, agreements and vows and promises hanging between us unspoken?”

Will sighed. He ran a hand through his hair, once again avoiding Hannibal’s gaze. “When I was growing up, I never got the sense that _this…_ ” he made a vague gesture between them, “…was something worth pursuing. I have no idea how my dad felt about it, and I never had a problem feeling attracted to women, so it didn’t matter. I just… ignored it and moved on.”

Hannibal cocked his head. “I imagine it would feel uncomfortable at this juncture to assign a label to yourself, but I believe you may fall somewhere on the scale of bisexuality. Your preference for women doesn’t erase your occasional attraction to men.”

“Oh, God.” Will buried his face in his hands. “You said you just wanted me over here to share body heat.”

“You are perfectly capable of rejecting me,” Hannibal said. “Of leaving the room, knowing I’m unable to follow. And yet here you are.”

Will lifted his head. Their eyes met and he smiled, hesitant, brief. A nervous reflex. “Here I am,” he said. “I told you I’m not fortune’s fool.”

Hannibal returned the smile. “No. You’re mine.”

Will gripped his knees so tight his knuckles turned white. “So where does this leave us?”

“I told you: anywhere you would like to take our relationship, I will gladly follow.”

“And if I want to leave it where it is?”

“Anything you give me is more than enough. I will never pressure you into doing anything you don’t want to.”

Will looked incredulous.

“In a romantic or sexual context,” Hannibal amended. “I only push you to do things that are in your best interest to do. When it comes to this aspect of our relationship, I believe it would be in both our best interests to give you the reins.”

Will looked out the window, then back at Hannibal, hands still gripping his knees. “So do I.”

“Good. For now, I’d like to invite you to engage in non-romantic physical intimacy for our mutual emotional benefit.”

Will laughed, sounding more surprised than amused. “You, uh. You sound like Spock. Has anyone ever told you that?”

Hannibal, who was entirely uninterested in being compared to someone with a name like ‘Spock’, raised his eyebrows. “No,” he said crisply. “They haven’t.”

“Well, you do.” Will’s hands finally relaxed. He flexed them against his thighs, looking down and away. “I’m not saying this as an evasive tactic, but this couch is genuinely too small for two people.”

Hannibal smiled. “Yes, but I had to start somewhere. If I had immediately suggested sleeping in the same bed you would never have agreed to it.”

Will’s head shot up. He gave Hannibal a sharp, wary look. “How do you know I’ll agree to it now?”

“Because of your posture.” Hannibal gestured to Will’s stiff shoulders, the way he’d shifted so that his feet were tucked under his folded legs. “You are as miserable and cold as I am.”

Will laughed, slightly warmer and more relaxed. “An astute diagnosis, Dr. Lecter.”

“Thankfully, you’re in luck,” Hannibal continued, spurred on by Will’s positive reaction, “because I know an excellent home remedy for this affliction.”

“The affliction of cold feet?”

Hannibal raised an eyebrow at this phrasing. He stretched like a cat, subtly dragging the blankets away from Will. “Yes. Would you like to guess as to what remedy that might be?”

Will rolled his eyes. “Cuddling?” he said dryly. 

“Doctor’s orders.”

“I thought doctors weren’t supposed to prescribe their own treatments.”

“In a legal sense, I am no longer a doctor. All my licenses, certificates, and honors were stripped from me when it was revealed that I am, in fact, a cannibalistic serial killer.”

Will stood up suddenly; for a moment, Hannibal thought he’d crossed some invisible boundary. But then Will smiled hesitantly. “Don’t look so distressed,” he said. “I’m just going to get Chiyoh.” 

“May I ask why?”

“Because I’m not dragging your six-foot-tall, one-hundred-and-seventy-some pound ass to bed myself.” He gestured to his bad shoulder. “Unless you’d like to walk Chiyoh through sewing me up again?”

Hannibal, who had barely made it through the process the first time, grimaced. “I would rather not.”

“Good. Me neither.”

Hannibal watched Will cross the room to the hallway, pausing before Chiyoh’s door to knock. She appeared immediately, brushing past him and beelining to the couch. She helped Hannibal to his feet, one hand around his waist, her shoulder wedged under his arm for support. Will followed them into the second bedroom, once again lurking in the doorway as Hannibal settled on the edge of the bed. Chiyoh struck a match and lit the gas lamp on the bedside table, then extinguished the match with a pinch of her fingers.

“I’m going to finish unpacking,” Chiyoh said. She shot Will a sharp, appraising glance and Will matched her with a defiant one. Hannibal smiled, feeling a rush of affection for them both.

“Don’t worry, Chiyoh. I doubt Will plans to assault me while you’re in the kitchen.”

“Not physically,” muttered Chiyoh with another icy look at Will. 

Will didn’t respond but stood aside, a clear invitation for her to leave. Without a word, she brushed past him, disappearing down the hall. Hannibal waited until he heard the kettle scooting onto the stove before pulling off his coat and slipping under the covers.

Hannibal wasn’t surprised when Will didn’t join him. But instead of offering verbal encouragement or assurances, he laid facing the opposite wall, smiling to himself. Patience was a virtue he possessed in excess. He could wait all night if that’s what it took.

Thankfully, it didn’t. With the wind wailing and snow piling around the cabin, the temperature plummeted like a comet, freezing anything exposed. Will sighed; Hannibal pictured his breath billowing in the cold air, frost belying the biological fire within.

“I’m not taking off my shirt.” Will’s voice was stiff as a corpse. “Or anything else.”

Hannibal’s smile grew. He didn’t turn around. “I don’t expect you to.”

“Good. That’s, uh… that’s good.”

There was another beat of silence. Then the covers shifted as Will slid under them. With the wary hesitation of a half-tamed beast, he shifted until his front was pressed to Hannibal’s back, face resting between his shoulder blades. “Is this okay?” he whispered into Hannibal’s shirt, barely loud enough to be heard over the howling of the wind.

“Of course, Will,” Hannibal murmured. For a moment he closed his eyes and was back on Chiyoh’s boat on the Atlantic, half-conscious but ecstatically aware of Will’s body pressed against his own. “Whatever you want.”

In the dim light of the guttering lamp, the room writhed with shadows. Hannibal watched figures waltz on stacked-log walls, caught in an eternal dance of dark and light. Although he was exhausted beyond belief, he waited until Will’s breathing evened out before allowing himself to sink beneath the surface, slipping into the woolen warmth of sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not to be gay but *watches Hannibal for the fourth time in six months*
> 
> As always, the biggest thank you to everyone who has supported this story!! I had a great time writing this chapter, so I hope y'all enjoy reading it! <3


	6. Reciprocity and Revenge

****

**CHAPTER SIX**

****

**RECIPROCITY AND REVENGE**

**Fairfield, Pennsylvania**

Despite the complex plots and stories that Freddie Lounds pursued in her professional life, her motives were, at their core, simple. Although she delighted in exposing criminals and their rather hapless pursuers via the TattleCrime, she was equally happy basking in the wealth her increasing ad revenue raked in. The most prominent benefits of being a self-made millionaire (which, she had to admit, wasn’t as glamorous as _multi_ millionaire, although she was confident she would get there eventually) were her fancy house and even fancier car.

However, having lots of money, a fancy house, and an even fancier car didn’t make a person invulnerable, and right now, Freddie would have traded it all for a return to anonymity. She’d dealt with plenty of creeps before, even the occasional serial killer or super fan (she still couldn’t decide which was worse), but the men who had shown up at her doorstep a few days ago weren’t creeps, fans, or creepy fans. They were killers, plain and simple. Not the crazy kind, either—no, these men didn’t kill for fun or out of desperation. They killed for money. And Freddie, knowing exactly what lengths she herself had gone to for cash, understood intimately that this was the most dangerous motive. 

The men arrived shortly after her latest article about Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham went up. They broke into her house and held her at gunpoint, making veiled threats like gangsters in a crime show. 

“Nice car you got there,” one man said, his face obscured by a mask, voice muffled and impossible to identify. “Would be a shame if someone crashed it.”

“Or if _you_ crashed it,” the man’s companion (similarly masked and muffled) added. “With a little help, of course.”

Freddie had tried to keep up a front of unintimidated interest, but her hands shook the entire time, heart racing like a hummingbird’s. By the time the men bundled her into their car (gun to her head, of course, as there was no way in heaven or hell she would go willingly), she was drenched in cold sweat. The men had taken her phone and left it in the house; she had no way to contact anyone until they stopped the car. Which they didn’t do for almost two hours—long enough for her to realize that the best way out was to play along.

And play along she had. Calling on every scrap of cleverness and cunning she possessed, she’d stared down Jack Crawford outside Molly Foster’s house, sneering and smirking and playing coy. And he hadn’t suspected a thing. Thankfully, because if Freddie had made one wrong move—if she had tipped Jack off in any way, shape, or form—she would already be dead. 

And then there was the second article. It was the only way she could think of to draw the FBI’s attention without alerting the masked men. A dangerous gamble, but one she was willing to make. After all, she wasn’t a _bad_ person. Opportunistic and vulture-like in her ability to spot and take advantage of the misfortune of others, but never _evil._ And kidnapping a woman and her young son to use as serial killer bait fell into the category of ‘evil’. 

So Freddie had taken the risk. And now, scrambling to unlock the case holding her brand new handgun (bright pink to match her pepper spray), she wondered if she shouldn’t have just leaned into the whole ‘evil’ thing while she had the chance. 

Her first mistake was living in a relatively secluded house. Her neighbors weren’t far away, but certainly out of what she referred to as her ‘scream radius’. Which meant that, if she were attacked in her own home, she could only rely on herself.

She managed to unlock the box and draw her gun just as the car came to a halt in her driveway. Peering out the second-story window through drawn curtains, she made out two men in the front seats.

“Oh, fuck,” she hissed. Not daring to turn on any lights, she scrambled to load her weapon in the half-light of dusk. Once the magazine was locked in place, she crept out of her bedroom and down the stairs. Her best chance was to slip out the back door before they realized she was home. But with all the fresh snow that had fallen… well. Tracking her down before she reached town would be easy enough for highly skilled hired killers. Which meant she would have to be extra sneaky.

She was halfway to the back door when someone knocked loudly on the front one. She flinched, ducking into a darkened alcove, breathing hard. 

The knock came again. This time it was accompanied by a voice… an unexpectedly familiar voice.

“Freddie Lounds? Hey! I know you’re in there. I can see your fancy car. Unless you have two of them? Come on, just open up. This is important.”

Before that day, Freddie would never have believed it was possible to feel so much relief at hearing Brian Zeller’s voice. But now, gripping her pink gun in a dark hallway with the threat of death-by-bounty-hunter hanging over her, the relief was overwhelming. 

“Miss Lounds, come on!” Jimmy Price added to the ruckus. “If you try to run, we’ll catch you.”

“No, we won’t,” said Zeller, “but we’ll definitely report you.”

Freddie ran to the door, slamming open the three latches (one for the super fans, one for the serial killers, and one for the serial killer superfans) and wrenched it open. For once she wasn’t worried about putting up appearances; grabbing Zeller by the front of his shirt, she pulled him inside, ushering Price in after him.

“Wow, hey, careful with the merchandise,” Zeller complained, smoothing down his wrinkled shirt. 

Price gestured to the pink gun. “I take it you were expecting someone else?” 

Freddie tilted her head, flashing an instinctive smile. “Maybe.”

“I’m just gonna take a random guess here,” said Price, “but would these expected guests have anything to do with the disappearance of Molly and Walter Foster?”

Freddie realized her hands were shaking; she switched the gun to her other hand, wiping her sweaty palm on her grey peacoat. “I couldn’t go to the FBI,” she hissed, keeping her voice low as if the bounty hunters were in the house. Which, for all she knew, they could be. “They said they’d send someone to watch my house. If I tell anyone, they'll kill me." 

“You’re telling us,” said Zeller, and Price nodded. “Off the record, though. Unless you want it to be?”

“No, no, this is on the record.” Price fished his credentials out of his pocket. “See? Official FBI business. Everything you say can and will—”

“Be published online to make everyone’s lives harder?” Zeller suggested. 

“That sounds about right, yep.”

Freddie rolled her eyes. “Would you two clowns listen to me for one second?”

“Do we have a choice?”

“No,” she snapped. “I’m surprised whoever’s watching my house didn’t snipe you on the way in. They probably hoped I’d just send you off, but at this point they’ve figured out that’s not what I’m doing.”

Price and Zeller exchanged an alarmed look. “Bad news,” said Price, “but we didn’t exactly bring an armored van.”

Just then, there was a _click_ from the back door. Freddie hunkered down, making a shushing motion. The clicking continued, the doorknob jiggling as whoever it was tested the integrity of the lock.

“We have to go,” Freddie hissed. “If they break in, we’re all dead. Trust me, you don’t want to tangle with these people.”

“If they scare you,” said Zeller, face pale as he crept back toward the front door, “then they’re definitely too much for me to handle.”

Price nodded emphatically. He followed his companion to the door; Freddie slunk after them, glancing back intermittently to check that they weren’t being followed.

Zeller reached the door first. Putting a hand on the doorknob, he turned, brow gleaming with sweat, and whispered, “On my count, make a run for the car.”

“Which car?” whispered Price.

“Mine,” said Freddie, before Zeller could answer. “I promise you: it’ll outpace anything our pursuers are driving.”

Zeller perked up slightly at this. “Okay, but I’m driving.” 

Freddie glared at him. “You are _not._ ”

Price shushed them. They stood perfectly still for a second, listening. 

The scratching at the back door had stopped, Freddie realized with a jolt of horror. Their window of opportunity was growing slimmer.

“Hey Lounds, do you have your keys?”

Freddie nodded. That was the only thing she’d grabbed, apart from her gun. 

“You’re their primary target, so you’ll be in the back seat,” said Price. “Brian, you drive.” He held out his hand and Freddie reluctantly handed over the keys, bejeweled hot pink mini pepper spray keychain and all. Price grabbed Zeller’s hand and pressed the keys into it. “You good, buddy?”

Zeller nodded, even though he looked moments from passing out.

“On the count of three?” said Freddie.

Zeller twisted the doorknob, opening the door a crack. “One, two, three…”

They bust through the door all at once, beelining to Freddie’s car. The red Corvette, still brand new and sparkling in the dusky light, looked suddenly tiny and exposed in the middle of an expanse of snow-dusted gravel and grass.

Zeller reached the car first, remotely unlocking it with the fob. He wrenched open the driver’s side door and slid inside, silently mouthing “ _Go! Go! Go!”_

Freddie and Price had barely piled into the back seats when Zeller slammed on the gas, tires skidding on ice and gravel as he punched it toward the main road. At first, Freddie thought they were home free. She even began to consider that she’d overreacted; after all, the kidnappers hadn’t _really_ hired someone to kill her if she snitched, right?

Wrong.

The first bullet came through the back window, passing through the passenger seat headrest. The second ripped Price’s sleeve, gashing open his arm but passing cleanly through. Price shrieked and Zeller shrieked back, nearly swerving off the road. Miraculously recovering, he juked left onto the main road, tires squealing as he sped away at NASCAR-level velocity. 

“Oh my God,” Zeller yelled. “Jimmy? You okay?”

“I’m fi—” Price was interrupted by a third bullet. This one tore through the back seat, burrowing into Freddie’s back and stopping inside her chest. She had just enough air left in her lungs to scream, and then everything was red: blood and pain and terror like nothing she’d ever felt. For a moment she clung to consciousness. Then, with a gasp, she slumped against the window. Her eyes fell shut and the world went dark.

. . .

Chiyoh left the next day. Watching her tromp back and forth from the van to the cabin, Will wondered what had prompted her sudden departure. Part of it, he assumed, was that she was ready to start her own life. She had devoted so much of her time to Hannibal and Mischa; it had to be getting tiresome, regardless of her love for them. 

His suspicions were confirmed when she gestured for him to join her out by the van. He’d been outside all day, only coming in to warm up by the fire. Chiyoh hadn’t told him explicitly that she was leaving, but he knew. There was a freshness about her, a determination born of reclaimed freedom. He’d felt it himself in the breathless moments after slaying the Dragon. And, although Hannibal was still bedridden and out of sight, he instinctively knew that Chiyoh had already said her goodbyes.

“Help me with this.” Chiyoh gestured to a bag of groceries on the doorstep. “I want to leave before it gets dark.”

The worst of the blizzard had passed, leaving the van packed with snow and ice. The road they’d taken in was completely obscured under several feet of fresh drift. Despite these obstacles, Chiyoh seemed determined to be on her way as soon as possible.

Will dutifully picked up the bag. Chiyoh strode across the snow, boots sinking into the fresh drifts, and he followed. 

“Here.” She pried open the back doors, sealed shut by a thick layer of frost. “Put it in the back.”

The back of the van was almost empty. The medical equipment was gone but the mattress and blankets remained. Chiyoh had flipped it over, hiding the bloodstains; if it weren’t for a few rusty patches on the carpeted floor, Will never would have guessed that it had served as an impromptu hospital. 

Chiyoh grabbed the bag Will was holding, jerking him back to the present. With an irritated look, she slung it into the van. 

“Sorry, I—” Will started, but Chiyoh cut him off. Stepping into his personal space, she cupped the side of his face and kissed his cheek, soft and brief. He froze, rigid under her touch. She pulled away.

“If you hurt him, I will find out about it.” The chill in her voice rivaled that in the air. “If you leave him, I will find you. I’m a very good shot.” Her gaze flickered to his right shoulder. “Next time, I will aim higher and to the left.”

Will, who was used to death threats, was nonetheless unsettled. Reeling from the kiss, he shook himself, unconsciously bringing a finger to his cheek. For a moment he stayed frozen, brain full of static. And then he smiled, crooked and sardonic. “I’d expect nothing less.”

She lifted her chin. Snowflakes settled in her sleek hair. She’d wound it up in a bun, accentuating the beautiful curves and edges of her face. “Remember what I told you,” she said. “About means of influence.”

Still in a daze, Will nodded. “Where will you go?” he asked. “You’re not planning on coming back, are you.” 

She shook her head. “No.” And then, “I’ll go anywhere I like.” She smiled, coy and mysterious. “Anywhere in the world.” 

Pivoting like a dancer, she adjusted her grey longcoat, slammed the van doors, and strode away across the glistening snow.

“Wait,” Will called as she opened the driver’s side door. “There’s one other thing.”

She paused but didn’t look back. “Yes.” The wind carried her voice in cupped, frigid hands. “I meant for you to kill that cop.” 

She slid into the driver’s seat, started the engine, and drove away. Will watched her go, snow settling in his hair, melting on his cheeks and nose. He barely felt it. _An act of reciprocation,_ he thought, and smiled. Humorless, twisted. Bitter. _Reciprocity and revenge._

Then he turned and walked back into the cabin. Behind him, the growl of the van’s engine merged with the wailing wind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was having the shittiest week ever but I read so many amazing fics this weekend and I s2g this fandom is so talented and supportive I'm gonna cry. Thanks for being the actual best! <3


	7. Mysterious Circumstances

****

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

****

**MYSTERIOUS CIRCUMSTANCES**

“Where are they?” Jack demanded, drawing his badge like a weapon. He waved it at the hospital receptionist, who scooted back in her office chair in surprise. “Brian Zeller and Jimmy Price. I want to see them immediately.”

“Yes, of course, sir. What’s your name and relationship to the patients?”

Jack tucked his badge back into his pocket. “I’m their boss,” he said, even though this wasn’t strictly true. But this woman didn’t know that, and he’d found throughout his career that, if you were loud and brazen enough, you could get away with almost anything. “My name’s Agent Jack Crawford with the FBI. I’m here on official business.” Another lie. “Your patients could be in danger from the man who shot them; I need to see them immediately.”

The receptionist nodded. She scooted her chair back in, giving him a wary look. “Alright, Agent Crawford. You can go in to see them now. But,” she added, holding up a red-nailed finger, “I don’t want you asking a lot of difficult questions. Only one of them was shot, and it was a minor injury, but they’re both in shock. Understood?”

Jack nodded. He arranged his face into a more sympathetic expression. “Understood.”

“They’re in room A130,” she said. “Here, take this.” She handed him a visitor’s pass.

“Thank you,” he said earnestly. “I appreciate it.” 

“No problem. Oh, and Agent Crawford?”

“Yes?”

“Try to keep your badge in your pants,” she said with a teasing smile. “Not everyone will be as impressed as I am.”

It took a few seconds for Jack to realize she was flirting. Taken off guard, he raised his eyebrows, clearing his throat. “I’ll keep that in mind.” Offering a small smile in return, he pinned on his visitor’s badge and strode down the hall toward the elevators. 

  


“What happened?” Jack demanded the instant Zeller opened the door. 

“Oh, Jack, how nice of you to join us.” Price waved from his reclining bed, a saline IV taped to his hand and a fresh bandage around his upper arm. “It only took you what?” He checked an invisible watch. “Five hours?”

Jack shot him an irritable look. “I came as fast as I could. They didn’t tell me right away.”

Zeller ushered Jack into the room, shutting the door behind him. “Bastards,” he said. “I told them to call you first thing.”

“Even before my twin brother,” Price added. “And he’s my emergency contact.”

Zeller raised an eyebrow. “No way. I thought you hated him?”

“Oh, I do. But that’s neither here nor there. Now that we’re all here, let’s get down to business.”

“Yes,” said Jack testily. “Let’s.”

“It happened like this,” Price began, but Zeller cut him off. 

“You got to tell him about our TattleCrime hypothesis,” Zeller said. “I get to tell him about this one.”

Price sighed dramatically. “Fine. Continue.”

“It happened like this,” Zeller said. “We went to Freddie Lounds’ place. Which is obscenely nice, by the way. Basically a mansion.”

“I don’t care about the mansion.” Jack’s patience was running dangerously thin. “Who shot you? Did you see their face?”

Zeller and Price glanced at each other, then shrugged in unison. “No,” said Price, “but we know they were working for the kidnappers.”

“Or for the same person as the kidnappers,” Zeller added. “Who we’re thinking are probably bounty hunters, right?”

Jack nodded. “That would make the most sense.”

“So someone hired these kidnappers to nab Will’s family, hoping to lure him and Hannibal out.”

“If they’re alive,” Zeller said. 

“Right, yeah. If they’re alive.”

Jack contemplated this for a moment, then sighed heavily. “I’ve considered that possibility. It’s unlikely, but we can’t write it off entirely.”

“ _And,_ ” said Zeller, with exceptional zest, “whoever shot Price got Freddie Lounds, too.”

“Right through the chest,” Price said, pressing a finger to his own sternum. “Got her through the back seat. That’s some top-tier marksmanship to hit a target through the back of a fast-moving, swerving vehicle.”

“It wasn’t swerving _that_ much,” Zeller protested. 

“Buddy.” Price gave him a sympathetic look. “We’re among friends. You can admit that driving a Corvette in a high-speed chase is just a little above your paygrade.”

“Speaking of that,” said Zeller, “they better give us hazard pay for this.”

Jack fixed him with a sharp look. “This wasn’t an officially sanctioned interview,” he snapped. They both startled at his tone and he forcibly lowered his voice, “I sent you in there alone, and I shouldn’t have. I knew the risks, and I let you go.”

Price shook his head. “We knew the risks too. And it was _our_ hypothesis. You didn’t encourage us; you just answered our questions.”

“Our _hypothetical_ questions, nonetheless,” Zeller said kindly. “Don’t beat yourself up, Agent Crawford. We’re okay. And besides, if it weren’t for the obscene medical bills, I wouldn’t mind the occasional hospitalization.”

“Yes, the diet they provide for shock victims is exquisite,” said Price. “Good quality comfort food.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say _quality,_ ” said Zeller. “But quantity? Certainly.”

“Alright, alright.” Jack held up a hand. “I need you to focus. You said Freddie Lounds was shot in the back. Did she survive?”

Zeller shrugged. “No idea. She went into surgery as soon as we got here; they said they’d tell us when and if she got out, but so far, nothing.”

Jack plopped down in the chair beside Price’s bed, running a hand over his face. “So, she _was_ involved. She knew the kidnappers, or they knew her.”

“Yep. When we got there she was hiding out, saying she thought she was being watched. She had a gun, but I’m pretty sure her plan was to run. But then she realized it was just us and let us in.”

“Yeah. So then we all ran across her massive driveway and piled into her car; I thought we were safe and that she’d blown it out of proportion, but then the bullets started flying and _boom!_ Got me right in the arm.” Price tapped his bandaged arm, wincing. “Ow.”

“So,” Jack said, “she wrote that article as a way of getting our attention without tipping off the kidnappers.” Zeller and Price nodded emphatically, and Jack sighed again. “Gotta admit, it was a smart move.”

“Yeah,” said Price, “right up until she got shot.”

“I doubt she knew what caliber of killer she was dealing with.” Jack straightened in the chair, bracing himself with his hands on his knees. “I certainly didn’t. I should have. Anyone willing to go after Hannibal Lecter must be either stupid enough or dangerous enough to warrant far more caution than I advised.”

Zeller scooted his chair up to Jack’s and patted his arm. “Don’t blame yourself. None of us could’ve known.”

_I should’ve._ Jack’s already dark mood darkened. _These people are dangerous, and right now they have Molly and Walter Foster. If I hadn’t dragged Will back into this whole mess, none of this would’ve happened._

But, he reminded himself before he could go too far down that path, Francis Dolarhyde would still be out there terrorizing families if he hadn’t. And Hannibal… well. Jack had never been gladder to be rid of someone in his life. And although it had cost him Will, Will had known what he was getting into. Jack may have pushed him up to the edge, but Will threw himself off. The footage didn’t lie: Will could’ve pushed Hannibal over alone, but he chose to fall with him. _Can’t live with him, can’t live without him._ Jack stared at the floor. It was a faded blue-grey, almost obnoxiously dull and sterile. _Identically different. Matter and antimatter destined for annihilation._

“Hello? Earth to Jack?” 

Jack lifted his head, glowering at Price. “What?”

“I said, didn’t you see Freddie Lounds at the Foster’s house the same day they went missing?”

“I did.”

“You think maybe she was there with the kidnappers?”

“I do,” said Jack. “You said she drives a Corvette?”

“Yeah. Bright red and beautiful, just like its driver,” said Price.

Zeller looked disgruntled. “Stop,” he said. “I’m getting jealous.”

Jack ignored them, tuning out as he retraced his steps at Molly Foster’s house. “I remember noticing that Lounds was driving a rental. Definitely not a Corvette, either—it was a light grey sedan, a Honda, I think. And once I showed up, she didn’t stick around. She said she was there to talk to Molly Foster about a book deal, but—”

“But she was showing the kidnappers where the Fosters lived,” Zeller concluded. His expression darkened. “Do you think she drove them there?”

“I think,” said Jack, getting up to pace, “that the kidnappers found her at home, forced her into their car, and made her drive them to Molly Foster’s house. They would’ve been driving a rental—an inconspicuous, common car that they could easily trade out—so that no one could trace it back to them.”

“And Freddie Lounds is always staying at crappy hotels and driving crappy rentals,” Zeller said, “so it wouldn’t’ve looked out of the ordinary.”

Jack sighed. “It didn’t. I didn’t think twice about it, but looking back…”

“Everything’s obvious looking back,” said Price. “Wheels on suitcases? L-shaped headphone jacks? Those plastic slipper shoes you can slide on carpets with? How did no one think of those earlier?”

The miracle, thought Jack, was that anyone had thought of plastic carpet-sliding slipper shoes at all. He settled back into the chair beside Zeller, resting his hands on his knees again. “She had to know something about them, or they wouldn’t’ve bothered sending a sniper to watch her house.”

“Maybe,” said Zeller. “Either that or they’re just really, really thorough.”

“Could be.” Jack glanced up at the clock on the wall. It had been fifteen minutes since he arrived at the hospital; it was coming up on morning now, the first splinters of wintery dawn piercing the blinds. “I guess we won’t know until Lounds wakes up.”

“I guess not,” said Zeller. “All we can do now is wait.”

  


“Freddie Lounds is dead.”

Jack stared at the doctor for a long moment, then shook his head. “They said she was out of surgery. We were told we could talk to her within forty-eight hours.”

The doctor shifted nervously, shooting looks at Zeller and Price over Jack’s shoulders before returning his attention to Jack himself. “I’m sorry, sir. The surgery was successful—they got the bullet out, and her heart was fine—but she died in recovery.”

“Are you telling me,” said Jack slowly, “that I just sat in a dingy godforsaken hospital room eating sub-par comfort food for nearly twenty-four hours just to find out that the patient I’m here to see died mysterious _post-surgery?_ ”

The doctor glanced down at the floor, then nodded. “I, uh. Yes. That’s what I’m saying. Again, I’m sorry, but there was nothing they could do.”

Jack sighed (his longest and loudest of the day, which was saying a lot) and nodded. “Thank you, Doctor. I’m sorry for snapping at you, but… well. Thank you.”

Behind him, Zeller piped up, “Do they have an official COD yet?”

The doctor shook his head. “No, actually. We assume it was due either to complications from the surgery itself, or else there was shrapnel embedded in her heart or lungs that didn’t show up on the pre-op scans.”

Jack glanced back at Zeller, who glanced at Price, who shrugged. 

“Actually,” said Zeller, “if there’s any chance I could get a look at her body, that would be great.”

The doctor looked surprised. “Oh. I mean, I’m sure they’ll want to do an autopsy, given the circumstances, but—”

“I,” said Zeller with an air of self-importance, “am an expert at autopsies, actually. Determining cause of death is my area of expertise.” 

The doctor frowned, looking pensive. “I’ll see what I can do. You’re FBI, right?”

“Yep. Dr. Brian Zeller. I’ve worked on a lot of big-name cases; you can look me up if you want.”

“Thanks,” said the doctor, in a tone that suggested he would rather not. “Like I said, I’ll see what I can do.”

Before anyone in the room could harass him further, the doctor ducked out into the hall, the _squeak-clack_ of his shoes echoing abrasively in the narrow corridor. 

The moment he was gone, Zeller gestured for Jack to close the door. “Autopsies are best performed within twenty-four hours,” he explained, as if Price and Jack weren’t also FBI agents, “so I’ve gotta get out there and argue my case ASAP. I’ll see if I can get official clearance to take Lounds back to HQ and see if I can’t figure out what _really_ happened.”

Zeller stood up. Jack put a steadying hand on his shoulder. “I’m coming with you,” he said. “Whoever shot Lounds is still out there. I’m not risking your life again. Either of you.” He gave Price a meaningful look. “In fact, I’d suggest you two get a protective detail assigned until this shooter is apprehended. I don’t want what happened to Freddie Lounds happening again. Especially not to anyone on my team.”

Price and Zeller nodded. “Fair enough. Bring in the babysitters.”

“Babysitters with tac armor and guns,” said Price. 

Ah, yes.” Zeller sighed dreamily. “The best kind.”

Fighting the urge to roll his eyes, Jack patted Zeller on the shoulder. “Let’s get moving,” he said. “I can’t be seen lurking around here longer than I have to. It’s fine for me to check on you two, but if Prurnell finds out I’m working this case even _tangentially,_ it’s over for me.”

“Aw,” said Zeller. “Who am I supposed to share my dramatic revelations with if neither of you are around?”

“Oh, I’ll be around,” Price called from his bed as Zeller and Jack stepped out into the hall. “You can’t get rid of me.”

“Good thing I don’t want to.” Zeller blew a kiss through the door before it shut behind him. 

“Alright.” Jack took a deep breath, grounding himself. “As soon as you’re done with the autopsy, I want you to send the results to my personal email.” Grabbing a pen and a scrap of paper from the diagnostic papers taped to the front of Price’s door, he scribbled down his email address and handed it to Zeller. “You find anything weird, you tell me. And Dr. Zeller? Get that protective detail in here ASAP. I’ve already spent enough time in hospitals for the rest of my life. I can’t promise I’ll come visit if either of you gets shot again.”

“Read you loud and clear,” said Zeller. He tucked the scrap of paper in the pocket of his jeans. “If I find anything weird, you’ll be the first to know. After Jimmy, of course.”

“Of course,” said Jack. “I’ll be waiting to hear back.”

“Hopefully you won’t have to wait long.” Zeller smiled, clapping him on the arm. “You keep an eye out, too, Jack. There’s a lot of wackos out there.” Then, whistling to himself, Zeller turned and walked away down the corridor toward the nearest stairwell. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just shoveled dirt for like two hours which is the most exercise I've gotten in the past three weeks. I'm already ordering my gravestone for tomorrow when the second-day muscle soreness literally kills me!
> 
> A huge thank you to everyone who sent me feedback/comments on this fic this week!! I love y'all sm <3


	8. Blood and Whisky

****

**CHAPTER EIGHT**

****

**BLOOD AND WHISKY**

After Chiyoh left, Will spent most of his time either outside or making food. Hannibal, who was getting strong enough to walk around for short periods of time, offered to help, but Will insisted he stay in bed. This was partially out of genuine concern for Hannibal’s health, but mostly to avoid awkward conversations. They hadn’t shared a bed since that first night; Will had taken over Chiyoh’s bedroom in her absence. Hannibal hadn’t commented, but one night when Will got up to use the bathroom, he noticed that Hannibal was still sleeping on the far side of the bed, leaving the near side open. Although he’d been tempted at first, Will ultimately felt too awkward to climb into Hannibal’s bed in the middle of the night, and hadn’t gotten up the courage to try again since.

As the fifth day since Chiyoh’s departure came to an end, Will realized they were running low on supplies. He’d been melting snow for water, but their food stores were nearly depleted, as were other vital amenities.

“I’m going to the store,” Will announced. Hannibal, who was sitting on the couch reading one of the cabin’s many books, didn’t react. 

Sighing, Will shrugged on a heavy snow coat and boots. He glanced at Hannibal, still absorbed in his book. “Do you want anything?”

“Hmm?” Hannibal lifted his head. “Oh, yes. More tea. I doubt the general store will have it, but Oolong would be preferable.”

“You’re right,” said Will, pulling on gloves. “They won’t have it.” 

“Will.” Hannibal twisted around to look at him. In the flickering light of the gas lamp, his eyes burned gold. “Be careful. The weather up here is unpredictable. It would be irresponsible—”

“Don’t lecture me,” Will snapped. “I know more about wilderness survival than you do.”

Hannibal’s eyes narrowed. An expression flashed across his face, brief but powerful. Will couldn’t name it; the closest approximation was fear, but that wasn’t quite right. Hannibal wasn’t afraid of things. Or if he was, he never showed it. “Why are you so certain?” Hannibal murmured.

“I… guess I’m not. What, were you secretly a Boy Scout or something?”

Hannibal didn’t respond. He turned away, propping up his book on his knees. “If you get lost, no one will find you until spring.”

“How terrible for you,” said Will. “If I freeze to death in the middle of nowhere you won’t get to eat me.”

“No. I imagine that honor would go to the ravens and worms.”

Will wrenched open the door. A gust of wind dusted the floor with snowflakes; he braced against the cold. “I’ll be back,” he said.

Hannibal didn’t respond. Will tromped out the door, slamming it behind him.

Will made it into town half an hour before the liquor store closed. He hadn’t intended on going there first, but the frigid weather had stolen his resolve, and he was desperate for a way to warm up. 

“That’ll be $13.10,” said the man behind the counter. He set the bottle of whisky (the cheapest Will could find) down, giving Will an expectant look. “Canadian,” he added, having clearly picked up on Will’s accent. 

Will pulled out a wad of cash he’d found stashed in the cabin, counting out the right amount and slapping it down on the counter. 

The store owner bagged the bottle and handed it over. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with kind eyes that crinkled when he smiled. He was roughly Will’s age, the tattoos on his forearms slightly faded, a streak of silver in his dark hair. “You enjoy,” he said earnestly. “It’s a cold one out there.”

“Thanks.” Will grasped the bag’s handles, his hands freezing despite his gloves. “Hey, do you happen to—” he began, then stopped dead. 

“What?” The store owner frowned. “You okay there, buddy?”

Will barely heard him over the rush of blood in his ears. The TV above the counter, previously displaying a sports game, was lit up with a picture of Molly and Walter. 

_“Search ongoing for Molly and Walter Foster-Graham,”_ said the closed captions at the bottom of the screen. _“Any information concerning their disappearance should be reported to the FBI immediately.”_

“I have to… sorry, I have to go,” Will said. His chest was tight, heart pounding, hands numb. He took a step back and almost slammed into a rack of wine bottles; reeling, he staggered toward the front door.

“Hey, wait a minute,” said the man behind the desk. 

Will turned, and immediately regretted it. The screen had changed again; this time it was his own face staring back at him. _“Will Graham, Molly’s husband, is missing and presumed dead. However, official sources have suggested that his wife’s abduction is linked to his disappearance. It’s possible that he may still be alive. If you have any information—”_

“You’re Will Graham,” said the store owner. For a moment he sounded triumphant. Then his face fell, eyebrows contracting. “Wait. You’re supposed to be dead.”

 _I know,_ thought Will. _But sometimes fate has other plans._

“Do you remember who you are?” said the store owner. “I’ve heard of cases like that, where people lose their memory after near death experiences. Listen, I’ll call someone for you; there’s that number for the FBI, right?”

“No,” Will snarled. “Don’t.”

The man, who’d been reaching for his phone, put up his hands as if in surrender. “Oh alright, alright. I get it. You wanted to start over, or…” The man faded off. Wariness filled his eyes. It was as if a switch had flicked in his brain, all the blood draining from his face. “I’ve heard about you,” he said. “You and Hannibal Lecter.”

“No.” Will tried to control his voice. “Hannibal’s dead. It’s just me.”

The man dove for the phone just as Will launched himself at the counter. The man stumbled back, desperately pressing the phone to his ear. He dodged through the curtains behind the counter and into the back room.

“Hello?” Will heard him yelling. “There’s a guy in my store attacking me. Yeah, I think it’s Will Graham. You know, the guy the FBI is looking for? But hey, just… just send the cops over here now, okay? Make it quick!”

Will’s plan had been to knock the guy out, steal his car, and take him back to the cabin. That would buy him time to think, to figure out what to do. But now? There was no way he could let him live. Not unless he wanted to risk his own life… risk _Hannibal’s_ life.

Launching over the counter, Will tore down the curtains and threw himself at the man. Slapping the phone out of his hand, he smashed it under the heel of his boot. Feverish with adrenaline and anger born of fear, he grabbed the man’s throat and pinned him to the wall.

“No! Stop, please, I’m sorry, I’ll tell them it wasn’t you!” The man choked, struggling.

“You already told them.” Will twisted, throwing him to the ground. “I wasn’t going to kill you. I wasn’t.”

“Then don’t! Don’t! Please!”

Will realized then that he was still holding the bagged whisky bottle. Grabbing the bottle by the neck, he shattered it. Gold liquor spilled across the floor. 

The store owner, who seemed to realize where this was going, slammed his knee up into Will’s chest, desperation in his twisted expression. 

Will fell back, gasping, into the pool of whisky and glass. His snow coat protected him from the shards, but before he could regain his advantage, his opponent was on top of him. He writhed, snarling and feral. Tilting his head back, he bared his throat. An invitation. A seduction.

The man fell for it. Wrapping both hands around Will’s throat, he squeezed. While his hands were occupied, Will surged up, cupping his opponent’s face. The man stared at him, eyebrows contracting in confusion. And then Will pressed both thumbs into the man’s eyes and pushed down hard. 

The man screamed. Not a shriek or a wail, but a sound of pure agony. Blood ran down his face in crimson tears; he released Will’s throat and clawed at his own face, falling back into the spilled liquor and glass. 

Will staggered upright. He stared down at his wounded prey, chest heaving. The bottle he’d smashed was in pieces now, too small and dangerous to use in a fight. He was contemplating going back for another when he saw it: a multi-tiered wine rack, each level endowed with an elegant wrought-iron spike.

“No,” the store owner sobbed as Will grabbed him by the front of the shirt. “Please, don’t hurt me. Please.”

“Get up,” Will snapped. “Or I’ll kill you.”

The man staggered to his feet. He pressed his hands to his face, blood gushing down his chin and onto his tattooed forearms. Will pushed him back, getting a better hold on him. Lining him up. And then he shoved him back and down with as much force as he could, impaling him on the liquor rack.

“Maybe I should’ve said ‘and’,” said Will as he crouched beside the dying man. Will’s hands were covered in blood, his face wet with it. “Get up _and_ I’ll kill you.”

He waited until the man’s eyes glazed over. Then he found the store’s bathroom and washed the blood off his hands and face, ditching his coat and gloves behind the counter. The authorities already knew. At this point it was better to avoid being seen covered in blood than to hide forensic evidence.

He grabbed a bottle of whisky on the way out. He’d found the store owner’s car keys behind the counter; a truck was out front, parked by the curb. Will unlocked it and climbed inside, starting the engine. 

By the time the sirens started on the other side of town, Will was already speeding down the road toward the cabin. It wasn’t until he stopped outside the cabin itself that it occurred to him: _I didn’t need to kill that man. He’d already told the cops. I could’ve knocked him out and left him._

 _No,_ snarled the feral beast writhing in his chest. _You did what was natural. You did what you were made to do._

Shoving open the driver’s side door, he staggered toward the front door. “Hannibal!” His voice was rough, ragged as a wound. His vision swam, red-tinged and hazy. “Hannibal…” Five feet from the door, he fell to his knees. The snow whirled around him, frozen and angry, but he didn’t feel it. He felt hot, feverish, his shoulder burning from exertion. 

“Hannibal,” he tried, one last time. And then he blacked out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's up everyone! It actually snowed where I live for the first time all year and my sisters and I got yelled at by a cranky old guy with a snow shovel for making a sled jump on the road 😂 and we didn't even build the jump (although we did use it to get some air on the broken-ass kids' sleds we've had since we were collectively ten years old lmfaoo)
> 
> Anyway, I hope y'all enjoyed this feral chapter! <3


	9. No Matter the Cost

****

**CHAPTER NINE**

****

**NO MATTER THE COST**

**Motu Tane, French Polynesia**

“Your phone’s ringing, do you want me to answer it?” Margot yelled from upstairs.

Alana, who was trying (emphasis on _trying_ ) to enjoy a brief reprieve from parenting, threw her head back and sighed. Pushing herself out of her cherrywood Adirondack chair, she slid through the screen door, shutting it behind her. “No,” she yelled back, “I’ll get it.”

“I’ll bring it down.” Margot appeared at the top of the stairs, wielding Alana’s phone like a weapon. “Here, catch.” 

“Don’t you dare.” Alana noticed Margot’s secret smile and laughed. “Here.” She met Margot halfway up the stairs, taking the phone. _“Thanks,”_ she mouthed as she held it up to her ear and pressed ‘accept call’ _._

_“Dr. Bloom? It’s Jack Crawford.”_

Alana’s heart plummeted. “Jack?” She shot Margot a startled look. 

_“Jack Crawford?”_ Margot mouthed. 

Alana nodded. 

Margot raised her eyebrows, then gestured back upstairs. “I’ve got to go check on Ken. Fill me in after.”

Alana nodded again, then slid back through the screen door and onto the deck.

 _“Have you seen the news?”_ Jack said.

“Yes.” She bit her lip, trying to keep the emotion from her voice. “Will and Hannibal are dead, then.”

Jack sighed. _“Well, we don’t know for sure.”_

Alana’s heartrate picked up, breath coming in fast, short bursts. She braced herself against the Adirondack chair, then lowered herself into it. “What are you saying? Are they alive or not?”

_“I’m not calling about Will and Hannibal.”_

“Then what?” 

_“Did you see the story about Will’s family? Molly and Walter?”_

“Jack,” said Alana, “tell me everything right now.”

 _“That’s what I’m trying to do,”_ Jack complained. _“Is your wife there?”_

“She’s upstairs. With our son.”

 _“I want you to pass this along. And I’m not trying to scare you, but I think you should be aware of the situation.”_ There was a beat of silence, as if Jack were working up to what he really wanted to say. _“I think someone hired a team of bounty hunters to track down Hannibal and Will. If they_ are _alive—and that’s a big_ if _—then you know as well as I do that Hannibal will eventually come looking for you. Which is bad enough on its own, but if he’s got bounty hunters on his tail—”_

“We could be in serious trouble,” Alana concluded. She swallowed, feeling suddenly ill. Leaning forward, she braced her elbows on her knees, closing her eyes. “There’s something else, isn’t there?”

 _“Yes, there’s more to it than that.”_ Another loaded pause. _“Freddie Lounds was killed a few days ago. She was shot in the back but died after surgery. Zeller and Price are still going over autopsy results, but they think she was killed via arterial air embolism.”_

“Someone injected air into her while she was recovering,” Alana breathed. “So these bounty hunters are either well connected, or extremely resourceful.”

_“Exactly. And either way, we are looking at an incredibly formidable foe, here.”_

Alana straightened up, pressing a hand to her face. “What a nightmare.”

 _“You wake up from a nightmare,”_ said Jack grimly. _“With a situation like this, you either live, or you die. And I need to be absolutely sure you, Margot, and Kenneth stay in that first category.”_

“God,” said Alana. “Me too, Jack.”

_“I want you to check in as often as you can, Dr. Bloom. To give me some peace of mind.”_

“I’ll check in. In between playtime and naptime, maybe,” she said, in the hopes of adding some levity to the conversation.

Jack chuckled. _“I never had kids, but I_ was _a kid, and if your kid is anything like I was, I can honestly say I don’t envy you one bit.”_

Smiling, Alana sat back, relaxing slightly. “Ken’s a good kid. Margot’s a great mom.”

_“And I imagine you’re just as good. That kid’s lucky to have such devoted parents.”_

“Rich, devoted parents,” Alana added sardonically. “Although I think he’d be better off if his rich, devoted parents were less entangled in the lives of notorious serial killers.”

_“Imagine how much better all our lives would be.”_ Jack’s voice had a genuinely wistful slant to it. He sighed. _“I wish I knew for sure.”_

“That he’s dead?”

_“He’s dead. He has to be. There’s no way he could’ve survived.”_

“Even dead,” said Alana, “he’s haunting us.”

Jack was quiet for a long moment. Then, _“I should go, but it’s good to hear your voice.”_

“You, too, Jack.”

_“Goodbye, Alana.”_

“Goodbye.” 

She hit ‘end call’ and slipped her phone into her pocket. Standing, she wrenched open the screen door and headed upstairs.

“Margot?” She peered into Kenneth’s room and found her wife crouched amid a pile of large wooden blocks and magnets. Their son sat in the place of honor in the center of the pile, delightedly sticking two large magnets together and then prying them apart. 

“We’re learning about magnets today,” said Margot, smiling at Alana over her shoulder. Then her expression changed; she must have seen the conflict in Alana’s eyes. Turning back to Kenneth, she put a hand on his shoulder and said, “We’re just gonna talk about some grownup stuff really quick, okay? Don’t worry, I’ll be right back.”

Kenneth smiled. “’Kay, Mommy.”

“Okay.” Margot smiled again, then straightened up. “After you, Alana.” She gestured to the door.

Alana stepped out into the hall and Margot followed. “That was Jack,” she said, before remembering that Margot already knew.

“What did he want?” Margot crossed her arms, expression somewhere between suspicion and anxiety. 

Alana sighed. She ran a hand over her hair, smoothing it back from her sweaty forehead. She still wasn’t used to the heat; she’d forgotten to wear sunscreen for two days straight and ended up with a nasty burn on her shoulders and arms. And they’d only been on the tropical island for a couple weeks.

“Baby,” Margot said, uncrossing her arms to take Alana’s hand. “What’s wrong?”

“You know Will Graham’s wife and kid?”

“Yes, what about them?”

“They were abducted. Jack thinks it was bounty hunters trying to lure out Will and Hannibal.”

For a moment Margot looked confused, then horrified. “Bounty hunters? Are you sure?”

“That’s Jack’s theory. I think it’s likely, given the situation.”

Margot let go of Alana’s hand, turning away. She began to pace up and down the hall, biting at her thumbnail. “They took Will’s wife _and_ kid?”

“That’s what Jack said.”

Margot pressed both hands to her face. She took a long, shuddering breath. 

Alana frowned. “It’s okay,” she said, switching into comfort mode. “No one knows where we are. Not even Jack. We made sure of it, remember?”

Margot shook her head. She raked her hands through her hair, taking a deep, shaky breath. “It’s not okay. I can’t believe they took the kid.”

“I know. It’s horrible. But I still have faith in Jack and the FBI; they’ll find them.”

“And if they don’t?”

Alana grabbed Margot’s shoulders and pulled her into a tight hug. “We’re going to be okay. If they come after us—after Ken—we’ll protect each other.” She lowered her voice, injecting as much strength and venom into it as possible. “And if Hannibal is alive, and God forbid, he finds us, we’ll protect our family from him, too. No matter the cost.”

Margot exhaled against her shoulder. “No matter the cost,” she whispered. “No matter the cost.”

“That’s right.” Alana kissed her wife’s cheek, nuzzling her neck. “We’ve got each other, Margot. We’ll be fine.”

. . .

Hannibal heard the truck drive up. He was still on the couch where he’d been when Will left two hours earlier; he hadn’t even begun to worry, but it was a relief to know Will had made it back safe.

But then a few minutes passed, and Will still hadn’t entered the cabin. Hannibal frowned. Setting aside his book, he swung his legs over the side of the couch and stood. Pain flared from his half-healed wound, but he ignored it in favor of getting the door.

Squinting into the darkness, he could just make out a truck parked where Chiyoh’s van had been. “Will?” he called into the wind; it whipped back his hair, nipping at his bare skin, throwing his voice back at him. He took another step, exposing himself to the bitter outdoors. As he did, he happened to look down and to the side. 

There, lying on his side in the snow without a coat between him and the cold, was Will.

Hannibal snapped into doctor mode immediately. Forcing his stiff muscles to work, he crossed the short distance to Will’s body, kneeling beside him, holding his hand over Will’s lips to check if he was breathing.

“Hannibal,” Will whispered. His eyes were squeezed shut, cheek pressed to the snow. Snowflakes caught in his lashes, melting on his skin the moment they landed. “I did something… I… Hannibal, I killed someone… _Hannibal…_ ”

“I’m here, Will.” Hannibal pressed the back of his hand to Will’s forehead. As expected, it was abnormally hot to the touch. “You have a fever. I need to get you inside as soon as possible.” 

Will groaned. For a moment his eyes fluttered opened, glazed and distant. “Hannibal, we have to go. We have to leave.”

“You aren’t going anywhere. Not unless you can stand up. Usually I would carry you, but I’m afraid I could tear my stitches. And until I teach you how to perform more advanced first aid, I would prefer not to rely on you to stitch me back up.”

“I killed him,” Will whispered. He turned his head as if to bury his face in the snow; Hannibal held him in place with a firm grip. 

“Who did you kill, Will?”

“The liquor store owner.”

Hannibal, who had assumed that this murder Will had supposedly committed had only happened in his fevered imagination, was struck by the sudden realization that _maybe Will did actually kill someone._

“Tell me, Will,” he said, keeping his voice carefully neutral, “whose truck is that?”

“The man I killed. The store owner. He had… he had keys, so I took them. Then I drove here.”

Hannibal pressed his palms to Will’s shoulders, pushing him upright. Although he still looked dazed and confused, Will stayed where Hannibal put him. 

“Does anyone know what you did?” Hannibal asked in the same calm voice.

Will gasped, lifting his hands to cover his face. They were bare, red and raw with the beginning of frostbite. “He called the cops. There was a picture of me on the news; they were talking about us, Hannibal. There was a number to call at the FBI. I don’t know if he called that number or a local emergency department, but God, they _know…_ ”

This situation, Hannibal realized, was more severe than anticipated. Not only was Will in a half-frozen, half-fevered, shock-induced state, but there was a very real possibility that the authorities were aware of their presence in Murdochville. 

“I need you to get up,” Hannibal said. His voice was sharp, commanding. “Stand up, Will.”

Will, as if in a trance, did as he was told. Which was rare, Hannibal thought—Will was, as a rule, allergic to commands. But the combination of desperation and stressed seem to be counteracting that for now. 

“Go inside and sit by the fire. Once you’re able to think clearly, I need you to help me load as much as we can into the truck.” Hannibal straightened as well, wincing as his side flared with pain. “Look at me, Will,” he said, cupping Will’s injured cheek in one shaking hand. 

Will turned and met his gaze. “I didn’t mean to,” he said. “I didn’t want to kill him. Just like the cop.”

Hannibal, who was pretty sure this wasn’t the case, gave him a sympathetic look. In fact, if the man had in fact already called the authorities by the time Will got around to killing him… well. Then it was murder. Even the best lawyer alive couldn’t make a convincing case for self-defense under those circumstances. 

“Go inside,” Hannibal instructed. He gave Will a little push toward the door, which was still cracked open, a thin beam of light from the gas lamp illuminating the porch.

Will staggered to the door and pushed his way inside. Hannibal followed, carefully closing it behind him. He didn’t latch it—after all, they wouldn’t be staying long. 

While Will instinctively gravitated toward the fire, Hannibal gathered all the shopping bags Chiyoh had left behind and began to load the remainder of their supplies into them. He retrieved every blanket and two pillows from the bedrooms, as well as a pair of hunting knives and a box of matches.

“When you’ve warmed up,” Hannibal told Will, “carry these bags out to the truck and put them inside.”

Will looked at him, then back at the fire. He nodded. “I’ll… yeah. Okay. I’ll do that.”

Hannibal smothered a sigh. Picking up one of the bags and the pillows, he shouldered open the door and walked to the truck. As expected, the keys were still in the ignition and the doors were unlocked. It was a four-door pickup, fairly new but dented and in need of new tires. White, which was good—unobtrusive and difficult to identify in the winter wonderland of the North. The windows were tinted and solid enough to keep out the chill, the heating system new enough to neutralize the most bitter winter cold. 

Hannibal took this all in as he tossed the bags and bedding into the back seat. It was made to seat three people; one flat expanse of black faux leather studded with seatbelts. He tossed the pillows to one side and tucked the bags under the seat, making a makeshift bed. Will, he imagined, would need to rest after whatever he’d been through; he was clearly in shock, as well as mildly hypothermic, and most likely had a fever as well. Hannibal hadn’t smelled it on him before, but they hadn’t been spending much time in close contact. It was possible that something had slipped under the radar. 

When he returned to the house, Will had regained some of his focus and awareness and was shoving their remaining belongings into bags. “I’ve got it,” he said when Hannibal tried to take one from him. “Get the blankets, and I think that’s it, right?” 

Hannibal gave a curt nod. “Have you wiped down the counters and bathroom? It would be better not to leave clear forensic evidence for our friends at the FBI. We wouldn’t want to make their jobs too easy for them.”

Will ran a hand over his face and through his damp hair. “I’ll deal with that. You take this stuff to the car and I’ll be out in a minute.”

“A minute,” Hannibal agreed, “and no more.”

He stood watching Will for a moment longer, then turned and, scooping up the last bag and the pile of blankets, returned to the truck.

Will took more than a minute. By the time he reemerged into the night, Hannibal had already started the truck, letting the heating system warm up. Already the temperature difference was enough to melt the ice creeping across the windshield; Hannibal turned on the wipers to help it along as snow continued to fall in fat flakes. 

Despite Hannibal’s insistence that he rest in the back, Will climbed into the passenger seat. Once inside, he slumped down as if staying upright was too difficult, eyes sliding shut. The bottle of whisky that had been the seat’s previous occupant slipped to the ground, landing at Will’s feet. 

“Will. You’ll be much more comfortable—”

“Just drive,” snapped Will. “Please, Hannibal, just… just get us out of here.”

Hannibal studied him for a second, taking in his flushed skin and limp posture. “Do you feel sick?” he said casually, putting the truck into drive. Being sure to start slowly, he pulled down the long driveway to the main road. 

“I…” Will groaned, scrubbing a hand over his face. “God, I don’t know. I killed someone, Hannibal.”

“You’ve killed people before.”

“I’ve killed two people. _Innocent_ people. Not… other killers.”

Hannibal tried not to sound too pleased when he said, “Yes, you have. But you did so to protect us. It’s a natural instinct, as I’ve said before, and you responded to it beautifully. I couldn’t have asked for a more devoted companion.”

Will didn’t reply. Hannibal couldn’t tell if he was unconscious or just sulking; either way, he wouldn’t be getting any conversation out of him for a while. Instead, he flicked on the radio. There was nothing but static. Sighing, he shut it off again, resigning himself to a long silent descent into the night. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm excited about this chapter because it finally includes Margot and Alana, who I love so so so much <3
> 
> I know I say this all the time, but thank you all for your support!! <3 It's so nice to know people are still enjoying this story! :)


	10. Devil in the Dark

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**CHAPTER TEN**

****

**DEVIL IN THE DARK**

Hannibal drove for four hours before the pain in his side became too much to bear. He pulled over at a snow-clad rest stop, parking in the most remote corner of the lot. They had enough gas left to make it to the town of Rimouski, which was located on the St. Lawrence River just a few miles down the road. But Hannibal, who was wary of pursuers, decided it was safer to stay in a less conspicuous place overnight.

Will was passed out in the passenger seat; when Hannibal shook his shoulder, he groaned but didn’t sit up. Sighing, Hannibal climbed over the console into the back. It was undignified and graceless, but since there was no one conscious enough to see it, he concluded it was better than opening the car door and letting out the heat. 

Once he was in the back, Hannibal flicked on one of the overhead lights and began arranging the blankets and pillows. The seat itself was far too narrow for both of them to lie comfortably side by side, but if they slept upright, it would be enough. It would be uncomfortable, but nothing compared to the other discomforts and indignities he’d suffered since the night they’d killed the Red Dragon.

While he was arranging the makeshift bed, Will came to. Twisting around, he peered at Hannibal between the front seats, narrowing his eyes at the light. “What happened?” he asked, running a hand through his hair. It was still thick with blood—Hannibal could smell it on him—but he didn’t seem to notice. “Where are we?”

“About four miles away from Murdochville,” Hannibal said. “The nearest town is a few miles up the road—” he gestured to the truck’s nav screen, which showed a map of the surrounding area, “—but I thought it safer to stop here for the night. If anyone is following us, they’re less likely to check every rest stop along the St. Lawrence River.”

Will didn’t reply. Then he sighed, shifting around so that he could crawl into the back with Hannibal. “Here,” he said. “Some of these back seats fold down to make more trunk space.”

Hannibal watched him fumble around in the dim light for a moment. Then, with a _clunk,_ the back seat folded down. 

“There.” Will sat back on his haunches, shooting Hannibal a small smile. “Now you can actually get comfortable.”

“Don’t you plan to join me?”

Will shot him a confused look. He laughed nervously. “Aren’t you mad at me?”

“I don’t know where you got that idea,” said Hannibal. “Yes, this has put us in an unfortunate position with the law, but it was bound to happen one way or another.”

“Was it?” Will sighed, pressing a palm to his forehead. “God.”

“Headache?” Hannibal guessed. Will nodded. “You need to rest.” Hannibal put a hand on his shoulder, guiding him down into a prone position. “You have a fever, Will. I need to make sure you don’t have an infection.”

Will shook his head, closing his eyes as the overhead light illuminated his face. His skin had gone from flushed to pale, dark shadows under his eyes and blood crusted in his untidy hair. His face, still bandaged where Dolarhyde’s knife had sunk in, didn’t appear swollen or inflamed, which was a good sign. “It’s not my shoulder,” said Will. “It’s something else.”

Hannibal frowned. Something occurred to him then; he cupped Will’s face, leaning in until he could smell Will’s scent under the blood and ice. 

“What’re you doing?” Will jerked away, giving Hannibal a disgruntled look.

Hannibal hesitated for a moment, unsure whether to tell him. But weighing the fallout of _not_ telling him vs telling him, he thought it was wiser and more practical to get it over with. “Will,” he said, “when you lived with Molly, did you ever have any complications from or recurrences of your encephalitis?”

“I…” Will looked confused for a moment, then sat up, nearly smacking his head into Hannibal’s face as he did. “Is that what this is?”

“I can’t be sure,” said Hannibal. “It’s not uncommon; usually secondary flareups happen within the first few years after the initial illness. Stress and trauma can trigger autoimmune disease.”

Will swore viciously under his breath. He shielded his eyes against the light, propped up on one elbow. “I haven’t been hallucinating, or sleepwalking.”

“Secondary cases are often less severe than initial onset. You may experience psychiatric-presenting symptoms, and you may not.”

“Maybe it’s just shock,” said Will. Despite his calm tone, Hannibal read the desperation on his face. “Maybe my shoulder is infected; you should check.”

“If you aren’t experiencing severe pain,” Hannibal said, “I doubt it’s your shoulder. However, it would be pertinent to check. We wouldn’t want to overlook a simpler explanation if one exists.”

Will nodded. He slumped back into a prone position, head on the leather seat. Hannibal slid a hand under his head, encouraging him to lift it. When he did, Hannibal slipped a pillow under his head and neck to stabilize them. 

As he unsealed the bandages and removed the gauze from Will’s wounded shoulder, Hannibal noted the redness and swelling around the cut itself. However, the inflammation had gone down significantly since he’d last checked: this wasn’t the cause of Will’s fever.

“Your wound looks good,” Hannibal said, fishing a fresh wad of gauze out of one of the bags Chiyoh had left them. He replaced Will’s bandage, sealing it to keep out dirt and debris. “A little inflamed, but clean.”

Will groaned. “Fuck.”

“Yes.” Hannibal smothered a sigh. “It’s likely, then, that this is a flareup of encephalitis, Will. Unless it’s an uncommonly mild case, it will eventually require immune therapy and medication.”

“We can’t go to a hospital,” Will snapped. “They’ll catch us.”

“Not if we are exceptionally careful. There are remote hospitals in remote places where people are less likely to have seen our faces on the news.”

Will turned over, hiding his face in the pillow. "I'm tired, Hannibal. We can talk about it later.”

Although he was eager to address the issue as soon as possible, Hannibal relented. “You’re right. You should sleep.”

“So should you.”

“We should keep watch,” Hannibal said. “We can take it in shifts. I’ll take the first one and wake you in three hours.”

“No.” Will grabbed Hannibal’s wrist, tugging him down. “I won’t be able to sleep if you’re not.”

Hannibal was too surprised by this admission to protest. Eyes glued to Will’s face, he let himself be dragged down onto the unfolded seat-turned-mattress. Shifting so that his bandaged wound wasn’t touching the ground, he turned to face Will. 

“Turn off the heat,” Will mumbled against the pillow. “And the light. If the battery dies, we’re fucked.”

“Oh, yes.” Hannibal felt a surge of irritation that he’d forgotten to do these things on his own. “Give me just a moment.”

Thankfully, he didn’t have to crawl back into the front to reach the keys. Turning them in the ignition, he listened as the heating system died. A moment later, the light in the back went off.

“Come here,” said Will, tugging on the back of Hannibal’s sweater. “I’m cold.”

Hannibal gladly acquiesced. As he settled himself under the blankets, Will surprised him again by shifting forward, tucking his head under Hannibal’s chin and throwing an arm over his hip. “Is this okay?” he said, lips brushing Hannibal’s throat. 

“Yes,” Hannibal whispered into the cooling dark. Hesitantly, as if dealing with a semi-tamed beast, he stroked a hand up and down Will’s arm: shoulder to elbow, then back again. Unable to help himself, he tipped his chin down until his lips brushed the crown of Will’s head. “Are you comfortable?”

“No.” Will huffed. His breath was warm against the hollow of Hannibal’s throat, his skin still hot with fever. “This sucks.”

“You let fate decide our future,” said Hannibal. “Would you have preferred to die in the waters of Chesapeake Bay?”

Will was silent for a long moment. “I… don’t know how to answer that. I don’t think I _wanted_ to die.” A beat of silence. “I guess I just wanted to see what would happen.”

“Your morality dictated that it was better to take two killers from this world than to condemn those we would kill.”

“Yes,” whispered Will, “but only if we died together. In the end, I couldn’t kill you, and I couldn’t watch you die.”

Hannibal hummed, tilting his head to kiss the top of Will’s head again. “Does a part of you still want us to die?”

“We’d deserve it,” said Will. Then, before Hannibal could protest, he asked, “If I’d jumped off the cliff without you, would you have followed me?”

“Yes.” Hannibal didn’t have to pause, didn’t have to think. “Without a doubt.”

Will shifted, tensing then relaxing as he tucked himself closer to Hannibal. “Because you planned it. You made sure Dolarhyde’s camera was filming, and that it was aimed at the bluff. You wanted Jack and the FBI to see us die so they wouldn’t come after us. So we’d have a head start.”

“Yes and no.” Hannibal slid an arm over Will’s hip, mirroring Will’s position. “Yes, I planned our escape, and that plan assumed that you would try to kill us. But no, that wouldn’t be the reason I would jump after you.”

There was another long, charged silence. “If I died, what would you do?”

Hannibal frowned. Discomfort stirred in his chest, the kind of emotion he usually kept buried six feet under in the vast expanse of his mind palace. “I would eat you,” he said. “I couldn’t let you go to waste, and I would want you to always be a part of me.”

“I’m flattered.” Will laughed humorlessly. “What part of me would you eat first?”

“Your heart,” said Hannibal. “Of course.”

“Of course.”

“In fact,” Hannibal continued, “I believe that consuming you would be my only true act of cannibalism.”

“I’m your equal. We’re the lions, and everyone else… they’re livestock.”

“Yes.” Hannibal paused, contemplating. “I imagine I would return to Europe after that. I might even go home one day.”

“To die,” Will said. “You’d only go home to die.”

Hannibal sighed, lips brushing Will’s damp curls. “I would take a piece of you there with me. When I died, I would ask for our ashes to be placed together, like Achilles and Patroclus.”

“I bet you think that’s romantic.” 

“It is romantic. We would ascend together into the mysterious expanse of eternity.”

“I don’t think we’re ascending anywhere. If there is a hell, we’re first in line.”

“According to Jack Crawford, _I_ am the Devil. Which makes hell my domain.”

Will laughed, shaking his head. “It was Lucifer’s perfection that lead to his corruption,” he said. “He got cocky. Like someone I know.”

“Are you also calling me the Devil, Will?”

“Would you be insulted if I were?”

“Not at all. In fact, I find Lucifer to be one of the most compelling Biblical figures.”

“I bet you do.”

Hannibal smiled. “There is beauty in destruction, and in creating order out of chaos. The forces of nature are ours, Will, and we may wield them as we like. The man you killed tonight, how did you do it?”

Will stiffened. He began to pull away, but Hannibal tightened his grip. Will resisted for a moment, then went limp, sighing deeply. “I gouged out his eyes and impaled him on a wrought-iron wine rack.”

Hannibal closed his eyes, imagining it. “An act of necessity elevated to elegance.”

“He was nice to me.” Will’s voice sank to a whisper again. “I didn’t have to do it, but I did.”

“And how does that make you feel?”

“How does it make _you_ feel?”

Hannibal smiled wider, reveling in the familiar give and take of their conversations. “Proud,” he said. 

“I thought you’d say ‘turned on’,” said Will, tucking his face against Hannibal’s chest again. He chuckled, shaking his head. His curls brushed the underside of Hannibal’s chin. 

“I wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“But did it? Turn you on?”

“I was more concerned at the time about your physical health,” Hannibal said. “It would have been incredibly inappropriate given the circumstances.”

“That’s not an answer.” 

“You said you didn’t want our relationship to be sexual,” Hannibal reminded him. “And I suggest we save this conversation for a later date. You’re sick, you may still be in shock, and I would prefer not to take advantage of you in this state, physically or emotionally.”

“What if I want you to?”

Hannibal stifled a sigh. “Will…”

“No, it’s fine. Just forget I said anything.” Will rolled away, pushing Hannibal’s arm off his hip and burying his face into the pillow again. 

Disappointment tightened Hannibal’s chest like a vice. He wanted to reach for Will but resisted the urge. That would only make things worse. “You’ll thank me in the morning,” he murmured. “I wouldn’t want you to mistake the desire for intimacy with the desire for sex.”

Will didn’t reply. Even though they weren’t touching, Hannibal felt the tension radiating off him. “Goodnight, Hannibal.”

“Will—”

“No, just… let it go, okay?”

Hannibal blinked against the darkness. He breathed evenly, belying the conflict stirring his mind like a swarm of hornets. “Goodnight, Will,” he murmured. 

Outside, the wind picked up again. The truck rocked as it was buffeted by particularly strong gusts; snow caked the windows, blocking out the little moonlight filtering through cotton-thick clouds. Hannibal closed his eyes, but for the first time in what felt like years, sleep refused to claim him. Instead he lay awake, listening. The sound of Will’s shallow, quick breaths blended with the whistling gale. Once or twice Hannibal nearly gave in and reached for Will, but he stopped himself, biding his time. 

_Patience is a virtue,_ he thought. _You waited three years for him. You can wait a few weeks more._

. . .

Molly Foster had no idea where she was. All she knew was that she was in the back of a van, hands restrained behind her back with zipties and duct tape, the steady rumble of the vehicle’s engine the only sound. Even in a drug-induced haze, she could tell that a significant amount of time had passed since she’d last been conscious. For one, she was starving. For two, her mouth was dry and parched, throat rough and voice disused when she called out, “Wally? Walter, can you hear me?”

“He’s asleep.” In the dark, a man’s voice. It was the same man who had taken her from her home. She knew there were two of them, but she’d never seen either of their faces. They made sure to keep hidden. In fact, it had been at least a week since she’d seen sunlight. 

“Where is he?” she snarled. At first she’d been terrified, but as time passed, she’d grown bolder. Fiercer. “Is he here in the van?”

“No, he’s in the front with my partner. We thought it would be good to let him get some fresh air.”

_So we’re somewhere remote,_ Molly thought. _Otherwise they wouldn’t risk it._

As if the man in the dark could read her thoughts, he chuckled. “We’re about thirty miles away from any major civilization, and we don’t plan to do anything but drive for a long time.” He paused, then yawned, long and loud. “You might as well get comfortable.”

“That’s what you’ve told me every day for _days,_ ” said Molly. She was too tired to put up a proper fight anymore, but despite the drugged haze, her tongue still worked fine. “You’re not going to kill us. It’s my husband you want, isn’t it?”

The man was quiet for a moment. “Not exactly.”

“Then you want Hannibal Lecter. Well guess what? This isn’t how you’re going to catch him. If Will survived, he would’ve come back home.” Even as she said it, she wasn’t sure she believed it. In their three years of marriage, she’d never seen the side of Will that Hannibal had brought out: the darkness that clung to him like a well-tailored suit, the grim determination hiding the thrill of the hunt.

“Apparently not,” said the bounty hunter. Because that was what they were, Molly had decided. What else could they be?

“What do you mean?” Molly tried not to sound too desperate. Her hands were falling asleep; she shifted, flexing her fingers to let blood back into them. “Why, did they find him?”

“He was spotted in New Brunswick.” The bounty hunter yawned again, longer and louder this time. “He killed some guy in a liquor store. They think he might be protecting Lecter.”

Molly’s heart plummeted like a bird shot from the sky. “He didn’t. I don’t believe you.”

“I don’t care if you do or not.” The bounty hunter sounded bored. “But that’s what I heard.”

“From who? Who told you?”

“I’ve got connections.”

“You saw it on the news.”

“Nope.” He popped the ‘p’ at the end of the word. “My employer told me. I’m in the loop, as they say.”

“Who’s your employer?”

The bounty hunter laughed. “Even if I knew, I wouldn’t tell you. But nah, I have no idea. The money was wired from an anonymous account. It was all done in the dark. They don’t know me, and I don’t know them.”

Molly’s eyes stung with tears. “It’s not true,” she said, stubbornly clinging to optimism. “About Will. He’s not a murderer.”

“Maybe not when you married him,” said the bounty hunter. “But God, if he did what they’re saying… Lecter obviously rubbed off on him.”

“I don’t believe it,” Molly repeated. And then again, and again. “I _don’t believe it.”_

“Believe or don’t believe whatever you want.” The bounty hunter shifted in the dark, something metal clanging as he rearranged the van’s contents. “Like I said, I couldn’t give a single fuck less.”

After that, Molly drifted in a haze of doubt and grief, caught between two truths: _I married Will Graham,_ and _Will Graham is a killer._

But that wasn’t the problem, was it? She had known he had killed people when she married him. Of course he had. He was an FBI agent; deadly force encounters weren’t uncommon in his line of work, right?

No, the problem was this: she had known she was marrying a killer. But she hadn’t realized she was marrying a murderer.

Closing her eyes, she tilted her head back, resting it against the metal wall. “It’s not true,” she whispered. The words echoed in the cramped space. Hollow. Empty. 

“Whatever you say,” the bounty hunter said. “Whatever you’ve gotta tell yourself to stay sane.”

_Sane._ Molly laughed aloud. _God, I’m so far past sane._

The van’s engine rumbled and roared. The wind whistled as it battered the windows, so tinted and obscured that Molly couldn’t make out anything beyond them. For the rest of the night—or day, or whatever time it was beyond the dark box that had become her home—Molly drifted in and out of sleep. Eventually she gave in. After all, she would need to keep up her strength if she wanted to survive this. If she wanted her _son_ to survive this.

And, God, she desperately wanted them to survive this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I literally cannot believe it's March again that should be illegal I'm losing my mindddd


	11. Acts of God

****

**CHAPTER ELEVEN**

****

**ACTS OF GOD**

The restaurant was small and secluded, as was the rest of Margot’s private island. Alana, who had initially been terrified at the prospect of spending time around so much water, had relaxed slightly after Margot found someone to watch Kenneth when they were away. Besides, Kenneth was already getting stronger; he loved the water, and it took all of his mothers’ collective attention to keep him from charging headlong into the ocean every time they went to the beach. 

The nanny they’d found was smart and classy; her name was Alicia, and she’d been willing to stay at the house for as long as they needed, helping with everything from buying groceries (which had to be ferried in from the bigger nearby islands), to dealing with the most passionate of Kenneth’s tantrums. She spoke three languages and had a Master’s in child psychology, so Alana really couldn’t ask for a better caretaker for her son. However, she still found herself worrying whenever she was away from him for too long. She knew Margot felt the same. A sense of general unease lay over their family, thick as drying blood. Even though _objectively_ she knew they were safe, she couldn’t shake the nagging fear that _Something is going to go wrong, it always does, it always will._

“Alana? Baby?” Margot put a hand over Alana’s, their wedding rings (matching, each worth over ten thousand dollars) clinking together. They were seated at a table for two under a vast white umbrella, shielded from the sun’s dusky rays as it sank into the turquoise waters on the horizon. “You look lost in thought. Do you wanna talk about it?”

Alana smiled. She banished the nagging voice in her head, shaking herself. “I thought I was the psychiatrist in this relationship?” she teased.

Margot smiled. She squeezed Alana’s hand, then raised it to her lips. She kissed each knuckle without breaking eye contact. “I know enough about psychology to tell when you’re evading the subject,” she said. “What’s bothering you?”

It took a moment for Alana to remember what specifically _was_ bothering her. Sighing, she ran a flat palm over her face, then turned her hand over to entwine her fingers with Margot’s. “It’s Jack,” she admitted. “He called again this morning.”

“I know.” Margot squeezed her hand. Her face slipped into a mask of frustration. “I heard you talking to him.”

Alana sighed. “So you know about Will.”

Margot nodded. “I checked the news this afternoon, but so far I haven’t seen anything about it.”

“Jack says they’re keeping it under wraps for now. The only reasons he found out is because Zeller and Price—two of the crime scene investigators on Jack’s investigative team—slipped him the information on the downlow.”

Margot frowned, then reached out to brush a strand of Alana’s hair behind her ear. She cupped her wife’s face, running the pad of her thumb over the ridge of Alana’s cheekbone. “Maybe it wasn’t him,” she said. 

Alana nodded, even though, deep down, she knew the truth: Will had survived. And if he was desperate enough to kill to keep the authorities off his trail, it was more than likely that Hannibal was with him.

“Come on,” said Margot, and although her smile was forced, Alana appreciated the effort. “Let’s order something to drink. Something,” she added with a mischievous wink, “exorbitantly expensive.” 

“To drown our sorrows?” Alana ran her thumb over Margot’s knuckles, then unlaced their fingers. Picking up the drink menu, she flipped through it. 

“To drown our sorrows,” Margot agreed. “Although, despite the circumstances, I’d say our sorrows are less numerous than… in the past.”

Alana glanced up. Margot had a sour expression on her face; Alana instinctively knew she was thinking about her brother. “That’s true,” she said. “Glass half empty, glass half full.”

“The answer to that riddle,” said Margot, waving over their personal waiter, “is at least two glasses completely full.”

Alana smiled at her wife as she ordered the most expensive wine on the menu, shaking her head at the unnecessary extravagance of it all. 

“And bring some appetizers while you’re at it, please,” Margot added as the waiter strode away. “One of everything.”

Margot turned her smile on Alana again, and Alana couldn’t help but mirror her. “Stop worrying, Alana.” She took Alana’s hands in hers. “I’m getting wrinkle lines just looking at you.”

“That’s just because I’m getting old,” quipped Alana.

Margot laughed. Leaning across the table, she kissed the corner of Alana’s mouth, the tip of her nose, her forehead. Then she put two fingers under Alana’s chin, tipped her head back, and kissed her on the lips. “You’re, what? Thirty-nine? If you think that’s old, you’ll be in for a surprise when you look in the mirror fifty years from now.”

“You think I’m going to live to be ninety?” Alana murmured against Margot’s mouth. 

“At least,” Margot said, and kissed her again. “I plan to live as long as I can, and I’m taking you with me.”

Alana laughed. She kissed Margot one last time then fell back in her chair, running a hand over her lips to feel where their lipstick mingled together. Coral-pink and blood-red, a testament to merging bodies and minds. “I just want to outlive Hannibal,” she admitted. “I want to live in a world where I know we’re safe.”

For a moment, something dark crossed Margot’s face. A flash of determination and purpose. “I’ll give you that world,” she said. “We’ll make that dream a reality.”

Alana paused, searching her face, but there was no trace of darkness left. “Margot—” she started to say, but just then the waiter arrived with the wine. Alana took her glass with a grateful smile; the waiter bowed, setting the bottle and tray of appetizers on the table.

“Enjoy, Mrs. Verger, Mrs. Bloom.” He bowed again, then strode away to the back of the open-air restaurant where he was preparing the main courses. 

“To our survival,” said Margot, raising her glass (definitely more than half full) in a toast. 

“To ninety years of it,” said Alana, and Margot laughed. 

Alana raised her glass and they tapped the rims together. Bringing it to her lips, she took a long sip. Across the table, her eyes met Margot’s. 

“To us.” Margot smiled, a trace of red wine clinging to the curve of her lower lip. 

“To us,” echoed Alana, and smiled back. 

. . .

**Quebec City, Quebec, CA**

They arrived in Quebec City midmorning, ditching the truck in the garage of a condemned building. Chiyoh’s bag of supplies included a bottle of sanitizer; Will spent a good five minutes wiping down every surface in the vehicle, erasing their presence as thoroughly as possible. 

“We should take off the plates,” Hannibal suggested once Will was done. They’d barely talked since last night; Will had spent most of the time staring out the window or pretending to be asleep. Hannibal had let him, only the occasional sigh betraying his dissatisfaction. “Here, hand me the toolkit.”

“I’ve got it.” Will retrieved the kit, selecting the right screwdriver and walking around to the back of the truck. He felt Hannibal’s gaze on him, molten gold and searing. He removed the plates—back and front—and slipped them into their supply bag. 

“We should dispose of them as soon as possible,” said Hannibal. “Perhaps in a dumpster.”

Will shot him a disgruntled look. “You know,” he said, “when looking for discarded evidence—especially bodies—in the city, dumpsters are one of the first places investigators look.”

“I know,” said Hannibal. “But Quebec City is large, Will, and the FBI will likely be caught up in legal negotiations with the Canadian government for a while yet. By the time they get around to searching the city, the plates will have been shipped off with the rest of the refuse.”

Will made a noncommittal sound. “I guess.”

“Here.” Hannibal took one of the bags and Will took the other. “We should dispose of the bedding as well.”

“Yeah.” Will ran his fingers through his hair. Bits of blood flaked off into his palm; he winced, wiping it on his pants. “Blood-stained pillows are a forensic investigator’s dream.”

“Yes,” said Hannibal, pulling out the blankets and pillows and shoving them into Will’s arms, “and a wanted criminal’s nightmare.”

  
  


They disposed of the bedding and plates in a dumpster a few blocks from the truck. Will would’ve preferred to put more distance between their evidence dumps, but it couldn’t be helped. They were drawing more attention to themselves with armfuls of bags and bedding than they would if they’d left it all in the truck. There was no point in sneakily hiding evidence if one had to carry said evidence across a busy city to hide it.

Once they’d finished discarding their extraneous supplies, they found a motel to lay low for the rest of the day. Travelling at night was their best option; besides, they both desperately needed sleep. Will hadn’t slept for more than a few hours the night before and guessed Hannibal had slept even less. He felt vaguely guilty about this—after all, it was his fault—but he couldn’t bring himself to apologize. In fact, he couldn’t bring himself to mention it at all. But if he didn’t deal with it eventually, Hannibal would inevitably get tired of waiting and bring it up himself. And then Will’s dignity (what little was left) was well and truly doomed.

He waited until Hannibal had paid the motel’s receptionist and they’d locked themselves in their room. It was the cheapest hotel they could find (they only had the money they’d found stashed in the cabin, which would last a day or two at most) and the room itself was dingy and drafty, the ceiling darkened with black mold.

“What do you want to tell me, Will?” said Hannibal the moment they were alone. He turned on the lights; they flickered for a moment before coming on. “I sense there’s something you want to say but feel that you can’t.”

“No, turn them off.” Will gestured at the lights. He still had a nasty headache, and for some reason he thought it would be easier to say what he had to say if Hannibal couldn’t see his face. And (although he didn’t want to admit it) if he couldn’t see Hannibal’s face. There was a terrible vulnerability in eye contact, and he wasn’t sure he was ready to look Hannibal Lecter in the eye and say, “Listen, I panicked and killed that guy because I saw a news story about my wife and step-son being abducted, probably by bounty hunters out to kill us. Oh, and also, I’ve never had sex with a man before, but I think I want to have sex with you. Just so you know.” 

No, Will concluded gloomily. It just wasn’t going to happen.

Hannibal, seemingly sensing this was a delicate situation, didn’t say anything. He turned off the lights, crossed to the bed ( _the_ bed, Will thought, and wondered if this had been intentional) and sunk onto it. The box springs creaked, amplified by the dark. “Tell me, Will,” Hannibal said after nearly a minute had passed, “is this about last night?” 

“No,” said Will, instinctively denying it. Then he sighed, passing a hand over his face. Crossing to the bed, he sat down on the opposite side, his back to Hannibal. “It’s about a lot of things.”

“There’s something else that’s bothering you. Something that happened when you killed that man.”

“Yeah, what bothers me is that he was just some guy. He wasn’t a murderer. But he made me one.”

“No,” said Hannibal calmly, “he didn’t. Even if you discount your kills prior to going on the run, you killed that officer who pulled Chiyoh over in cold blood.”

“Cold blood suggests I planned it. I just… acted. Instinctually.”

“And did you act instinctually when you killed the man at the liquor shop?”

Will leaned forward. Bracing his elbows on his knees, he shook his head. “It wasn’t even about him. I didn’t realize until after, but…” He faded off, unable to voice what he really wanted to say. “I saw something,” he said. “There’s someone looking for us, Hannibal.”

“I imagine plenty of people are looking for us.” Hannibal’s tone was light, mild. “In fact, now that there’s been a sighting of you in New Brunswick, it’s likely that half the FBI and a good portion of the RCMP are scrambling to pick up our trail as we speak.” 

“No,” said Will. The tension in his jaw made his headache worse; he pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, breathing through a particularly vicious spike of pain. “I’m talking about bounty hunters. I saw… before the man recognized me, there was a news story on the TV in his store.”

“They were reporting on your disappearance?”

“Yes. But before that…”

“Will. Tell me.”

Will sighed heavily. “Someone abducted my wife. And my stepson.”

Hannibal was silent for a concerningly long time. Then, “That bothers you.”

Despite knowing Hannibal couldn’t see him, Will shot an incredulous look over his shoulder. “God, yes, of course it does. What, do you think that me running away with you means I don’t give a fuck about anyone else in my life?”

“You chose me, Will. Or rather, fate chose for you.”

Will was on his feet in a flash. He didn’t bother turning on the lights; launching himself over the bed, he grabbed Hannibal by the back of the neck, pushing him to the ground. He wedged his knee into the space between Hannibal’s shoulder blades, the other planted firmly on the grimy carpet. Leaning down, he snarled, “You’re a selfish, narcissistic son of a bitch. Sometimes I wonder why I didn’t push you off that cliff and walk away.”

Hannibal didn’t remain passive. Will had the upper hand for maybe three seconds before Hannibal twisted around and bit his wrist, hard. Momentarily distracted by pain and surprise, Will jerked back. And in that moment, Hannibal surged up. Wrapping a hand around Will’s throat, he flipped him onto his back, pinning him with a knee pressed firmly against his stomach. 

Will struggled, but Hannibal kept him pinned. The more Will fought, the harder the grip on his throat; eventually he went limp, trying in vain to push Hannibal off him. 

“Will,” said Hannibal in a shockingly calm voice. “Behave.”

“Get off me,” Will hissed, taking in short gasps of air as Hannibal eased off slightly. “Get _off._ ” He shoved Hannibal, one hand pressing into the gunshot wound. He’d expected that to be enough to give him the upper hand again, but Hannibal, true to form, concealed his pain and remained unmoved. 

“That wasn’t very smart.” Hannibal’s voice was low, dangerous. In that moment, it struck Will all over again that _Hannibal is a serial killer, he’s dangerous, he could kill me at any moment if he chose to._

Will went limp, then twisted away, pivoting his whole body until Hannibal was forced to let him go. Gasping, he rolled over, then rose into a crouch. Now, he regretted his decision to have the lights off. After all, Hannibal was a predator who had fought many more battles than Will. Many of them, Will assumed, had been fought in the dark.

“Tell me, Will,” said Hannibal. His voice shifted in the darkness; Will couldn’t quite pinpoint where he was in the room. “Do you still love them? Your wife and stepchild.”

“Yes.” It was true—of course it was—but the conviction with which Will said it was more to spite Hannibal than anything. “I still love Molly. And Walter, although we never really connected.”

“And do you love me?” Hannibal’s voice came from directly behind him. Somehow, he’d managed to sneak up on Will in the gloom, like a bird of prey swooping down to snatch a mouse in its talons. Before Will could react, Hannibal’s hand wrapped around his throat, tugging him back against Hannibal’s chest. 

Will struggled, but Hannibal’s grip was iron-clad. Thankfully, it wasn’t enough to choke him; this time, it seemed, it was more about intimidation than anything.

Deciding that he was unlikely to gain the upper hand in a physical fight, Will settled for psychological damage. “Maybe I’m still working for Jack,” he snarled. “Maybe Molly and Wally are in hiding and I’m planning to go back to them when you’re dead.”

Hannibal’s hand flexed around his throat. He felt Hannibal’s breath on the back of his neck, coming in sharp, rapid bursts. “What are you trying to accomplish? What reaction are you attempting to draw from me?”

Will faltered. What _was_ he trying to do? Get a reaction out of Hannibal—that was a given—but on top of that? Well. That was probably a subject better explored in therapy. Which would be all well and good, if Will’s therapist wasn’t the source of every single one of his problems. 

“You’re angry at me,” Hannibal extrapolated. “You have plenty of reasons to be. But why did you choose now to express it? You had every chance to kill me, or to leave me behind. You could have left me with Chiyoh even, knowing I would survive.”

“Would you?” Will whispered. “Could we survive separation, after everything?”

Hannibal sighed. His lips brushed the back of Will’s neck. Will shivered, shifting in his arms. “Do you still think you could kill me?” Hannibal asked. Again, his voice was infuriatingly calm. Collected. As if they were discussing the morning news rather than the deep, vicious psychological core of their fucked-up relationship. 

“No,” said Will. It slipped out before he could stop it. He twisted, testing Hannibal’s strength. In response, Hannibal tightened his grip, holding Will against him. “Even back in Italy, when I tried then… there’s a reason I brought a knife. I knew I wouldn’t kill you unless I could do it with my bare hands. Unless I could make it _intimate._ ” Will sucked in a deep breath, then released it in a hiss. “If I couldn’t kill you then, I certainly couldn’t do it now.”

“No. Not unless you also killed yourself.”

Will closed his eyes. For a moment he just sat there, breathing. And then he relaxed, sinking back against Hannibal’s chest, head resting on his shoulder. “I don’t intend to outlive you,” he admitted, voice hoarse and cracked. 

“I don’t think I want to outlive you, either,” Hannibal murmured. He shifted and his cheek pressed against Will’s hair, breath stirring wayward curls. “We die together, or not at all.”

“I tried to kill us once,” said Will. “I think that’s enough, don’t you?”

Hannibal laughed. Short and soft, barely more than an exhale. “It is for me.”

Will shifted his head until his cheek was aligned with Hannibal’s. He could feel the sharp ridge of Hannibal’s cheekbone, the hard lines that made up his ethereal, exotically handsome face. “I told you before that I wanted to let fate choose. And… that I wanted to see what would happen.”

“You mean when you threw us into the Atlantic.”

“Yes.” Will swallowed. If he were able to move his arms, he would’ve hidden his face in his hands. “Those weren’t the only reasons, though. It just felt like… like I’d finally reached my peak. Killing the Dragon with you, consummating everything we’d worked toward—consciously on your part, unconsciously on mine—for years… I knew I’d be chasing that high for the rest of my life.”

“So you tried to end our story in a way that felt fitting to you,” Hannibal said. His voice was soft, understanding. “You believed that nothing would ever come close to satiating the lust that night awakened in you. That, with the beast inside you unleashed, the world wouldn’t be safe until we were both gone from it.”

Will arched his back, pressing himself against Hannibal from shoulders to hips. “It felt natural,” he said. “Like a conclusion.”

“The period at the end of our sentence,” said Hannibal, and Will nodded. 

“Exactly.”

“But we survived.”

“We survived—” Will turned his head until his lips brushed Hannibal’s jaw, whispering against his skin, “—and the story goes on and on.”

There was a long moment of silence. In the dark, Will’s heartbeat merged with Hannibal’s, the only sound apart from their ragged breathing. 

“Do you wanna know the truth?” Will whispered. His hands shook, every inch of his body tense and electrified. “My moral compass has been irreparably skewed by your magnetism. I loved Molly because I loved the part of me that wanted to be _good,_ that wanted to deny everything I was… that I am. So yes, I loved her. But I was never _in love_ with her. 

“Will,” Hannibal breathed. The hand on Will’s throat slid up to cup his jaw, thumb brushing over his cheekbone.

“I think,” said Will, “that despite everything, you’re the one who taught me to be human, Hannibal. You tore me from the dichotomy of good and evil and showed me that destruction can be beautiful. I tried to live inside society’s box, but that kind of life isn’t for people like you and me. Peace doesn’t become us. We’re made for greater things. We’re like storms, Hannibal: acts of God. Nothing made us, we just are. Transforming pride and fear into monuments of beauty carved into the face of death: a gift from the Devil to Mankind.” And then he twisted around, grabbing a fistful of Hannibal’s hair. Jerking Hannibal’s head back, he seized him by the throat and kissed him like the world was ending. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh sorry it took me so long to respond to comments on the previous chapter!! I just want y'all to know that I appreciate all your feedback and comments so so so much and I'm just very flaky sometimes lol. Anyway, love y'all and hope you enjoyed this extremely feral chapter! <3


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